VEILS  OF  SAMITE 


BY 

J.  CORSON  MILLER 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1921, 

BY  SMALL,  MAYNAED  &  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 


INTRODUCTION 

Mr.  Miller's  name  has  been  familiar  to  the  readers 
of  poetry  for  a  number  of  years,  and  the  familiarity 
is  largely  due  to  the  manner  in  which  his  poems  have 
been  widely  copied  following  their  original  publica 
tion.  In  this  miscellaneous  appearance  Mr.  Miller 
won  an  appreciative  audience  for  his  verse,  an  audi 
ence  that  now  has  the  opportunity  to  understand 
and  admire  his  merit  as  a  singer  in  this,  the  first  col 
lection,  in  which  he  has  brought  his  work  together. 
It  is  noted,  in  turning  these  pages,  how  well  the  sing 
ing  quality  is  sustained.  By  way  of  song  Mr.  Miller 
lures  the  reader  temptingly  along  the  paths  of  his 
dreams,  and  into  the  heart  of  those  secrets  which 
have  a  fine  flavor  of  mysticism.  I  trust  it  is  not  out 
of  place,  in  considering  poetry  as  an  artistic  ex 
pression,  to  remark  that  Mr.  Miller  is  a  Catholic; 
and  while  he  is  a  Catholic  poet,  in  a  certain  phase  of 
the  meaning,  he  is,  I  like  to  think,  also  a  Catholic 
and  a  poet.  So  to  describe  him  is  to  emphasize  his 
unliversallity.  'He  sings  about  all  tliose  mystical 


figures,  rituals  and  symbols,  which  belong  to  the 
Church,  but  he  never  narrows  the  broad  basis  of  life 
on  purely  orthodox  foundations.,Human  life  in  its 
fullness  appeals  to  his  imagination,  and  within  the 
scope  of  that  imagination,  he  gathers  its  varied  ex 
periences  and  its  innumberable  emotions.  We  catch 
his  encompassing  vision  as  a  poet  in  such  verses  to 
which  he  gives  the  significant  title  of  "The  March  of 
Humanity." 

It  is  not  difficult  to  recommend  a  poet  for  the  vari 
ety  of  his  themes,  it  is  difficult  to  commend  a  poet 
for  an  equal  excellence  in  the  variety.  One  can 
heartily  commend  Mr.  Miller  for  his  success  in  this. 
The  felicity  with  which  he  paints  a  bit  of  nature  is 
matched  by  the  impressive  grace  with  which  he 
sounds  the  elegiac  note;  these  are  two  extreme 
gamuts  between  which,  with  equal  success,  he  sings  of 
love  and  war,  of  humanity  and  the  Church.  I  would 
like  particularly  to  call  attention  to  such  poems  as 
"Transformation,"  "Sacrifice,"  "Maximilian  Marvel 
ous."  "Salve  Regina  Aeterna!"  "Epicedium  (In 
Memory  of  America's  Dead  in  This  Great  War)" 
and  "The  Dead  Astronomer,  A  Tribute  to  the  Mem 
ory  of  Percival  Lowell,"  to  show  something  of  Mr. 
Miller's  temper  with  various  themes.  His  enthusi 
asm  is  so  manifestly  pure  that  the  reader,  who  is  not 


looking  for  the  bizarre  or  the  exotic,  cannot  escape 
the  appeal  of  his  spontaneity  and  exulation.  He 
has  that  most  fortunate  of  all  poetic  gifts,  the  ability 
to  turn  our  common  moods  and  emotional  reactions 
into  the  common  currency  of  rhythmic  expression. 
Without  debasing  his  facility  into  the  maudlin,  as 
is  too  often  done  by  the  prolific,  he  pours  forth  his 
songs  always  with  the  consciousness  of  his  responsi 
bility  as  an  artist.  This  collection  represents  but  a 
small  portion  of  the  verse  Mr.  Miller  has  written,  and 
so  the  reader  may  miss  some  pieces  that  have  partic 
ularly  pleased  him  in  their  fugitive  publication. 
But  the  collection  here  gathered,  as  a  premiere,  will 
command  him  a  place  among  the  poets  of  to-day. 

WILLIAM    STANLEY   BRAITHWAITE. 


Veils  of  Samite 


DEDICATION 

I  wear  a  red  rose  for  my  love 

Who  walks  with  me  Life's  crowded  sphere; 
I  wear  it  for  an  outward  sign 

That  always  I  shall  hold  her  dear. 
But  in  my  heart,  close-hid  from  view, 
I  keep  a  clean,  white  rose  for  you. 

A  red  flame  burns  within  my  soul, 

And  through  mine  eyes  men  see  that  flame; 
It  keeps  life's  purpose  straight  and  high, 

Within  its  light  can  come  no  shame. 
But  in  my  soul,  bright-burning,  too, 
I  keep  a  white  flame  lit  for  you. 

A  red  dream  leaps  and  rules  my  brain, 

And  colors  all  my  days  with  fire ; 
Men  pause  to  praise  and  envy  me, 
[1] 


For  that  I  pluck  the  world's  desire. 
But  ah,  they  cannot  pierce  me  through, 
To  see  this  white  dream  shaped  for  you! 


[2] 


TRANSFORMATION 

Love,  we  have  dipped  Life's  humble  bread 
Into  the  stars'  flame-bubbling  springs; 

We've  knelt  before  the  Moon's  white  face, 
While  'round  us  whirred  Night's  purple  wings. 

Love,  we  have  trod  the  floors  of  Morn, 

And  watched  Dawn's  reeling  galleons  die; 

The  sunset's  panoramic  hdlls — 

Love,  we  have  known  them,  you  and  I. 

Upon  the  battlements  of  Time 

We  stood  and  heard  Life's  thunders  roar: 
A  million  ticking  years  that  swelled 

To  crashing  notes  of  millions  more. 

Our  hearts  have  germinated  sweet 

To  beauty  through  each  golden  hour; 

But  now  the  bloom-time  days  are  past, 
The  stalk  is  fading  with  the  flower. 
[3] 


And  we  shall  seek  earth's  simple  things  : 
A  roof-tree  small,  a  green-thatched  fire  — 

Come,  Love,  and  lay  your  cherished  dreams 
Beneath  the  touch  of  my  desire. 


could  not  climb  the  Infinite, 
The  jagged  heights  were  steep  and  long; 
For  us  child-wistfulness  and  sleep  — 
Old  twilight  memories  and  song. 

Love,  is  it  here  that  we  shall  wend, 

Down  homelit  paths,  grown  gently  wise? 

Perhaps  our  eyes,  made  glad  of  earth, 
Shall  find  the  Key  to  Paradise. 


[4] 


A  PANAMA  P^EAN 

Where  the  sea-gods  call  from  the  spume-choked 

spaces, 

While  the  circling  search-lights  shatter  the  gloom, 
The  ghosts  of  the  centuries  hide  their  faces, 
Aghast  at  the  cleft  of  the  Mother's  womb. 
For  they  clove  the  womb  of  the  old  Earth  Mother- — 
These  Yanjkee  Titans — brother  with  brother, 
They  fared  from  their  homes  to  these  tropic  places, 
But  Death  marked  many  for  a  hero's  tomb. 

How  the  steam-shovel  groans  and  the  air-pump 

quivers ! 

Yea,  Atlas  pales  in  the  swirl  o'  the  storm; 
They    have    channeled    the    lakes,    and    they've 

throttled  the  rivers, 

But  the  heart  of  the  old  Earth  Mother  beats  warm. 
And  her  eyes  grow  soft  with  the  joy  of  the  giving — 
There's  a  psalm  for  the  dead,  there's  a  cheer  for 

the  living; 

The  rock-ribbed  hills  are  rent  to  slivers, 
The  oceans  wait  with  a  vague  alarm. 
[5] 


The  stars,  amazed,  peer  down  in  their  glory! 
Wind  of  the  Night !     O  Wind  of  the  Mere  t 
Fly  on  thy  wings  with  the  wonderful  story, 
Scatter  thy  message  afar  and  anear: 
Swart  fleets  will  float  through  the  draws  at  even, 
Robed  brave  in  the  sunset-hues  of  heaven, 
And  stripling  sailors  and  shipmen  hoary, 
From  the  farthest  ports  shall  pause  to  revere. 

Lo,  Triton  his  night-horn  is  faithfully  sounding 
Across  the  wild  wastes  of  the  'wildered  sea! 
And    the    moon-lashed    tides    at    the    gates    are 

pounding, 

O  vision  Terrific  of  Things  To  Be ! 
And  it's  East  to  the  West  shall  be  moulded  forever 
By   the   cordage   of   commerce  that  no   man   can 

sever ; 

O,  God  of  our  Fathers,  with  blessings  abounding, 
Keep  Thou  our  stewardship  clean  and  free! 

In  the  days  of  our  might,  in  the  pride  of  our 

splendour, 

Lord  of  the  Starry  Hosts,  King  of  the  Deep! 
Grant  Thou  wilt  cast  on  us  benisons  tender, 
Watching  us  waking-eyed,  guarding  our  sleep. 
[6] 


Thus,  by  this  Waterway,  held  in  Thy  hand, 
Progress   shall  march  in   triumphant   command; 
Lord  of  the  Nations,  our  homage  we  render, 
And,  O,  may  the  harvest  be  good  that  we  reap! 


[7] 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  BLACK  SUDAN 

We  saw  the  snows  on  Atlas 

Glow  red  in  the  sunset's  flame; 

We  heard  the  Mosques  of  the  Karaouin 

Resound  with  Allah's  name. 

We  saw  the  Arabs  in  bournous  and  cowl 

Kneel  down  where  the  Sebou  ran — 

On  the  road  that  leads  from  White  Tangiers 

Down  to  the  Black  Sudan. 

We  saw  the  walls  of  Kazar 

With  its  orange  and  olive  trees; 

With  its  saffron-gilded  gateways, 

Sun-baked  for  centuries. 

We  saw  Old  Fez  with  its  terraces, — 

The  march  of  the  caravan, 

On  the  road  that  leads  from  White  Tangiers 

Down  to  the  Black  Sudan. 

The  muezzins"   call  from  the  minarets 
Was  borne  on  the  evening  air; 
[8] 


The  hushed  bazars  of  Mequinez 
Showed  us  their  ancient  ware. 
Snake-skin  guitars   and  tambourines, 
Girl-slaves  from  Kharrasan, 
We  saw  on  the  road  from  White  Tangiers 
Down  to  the  Black  Sudan. 

Bedouin  pipes  with  their  saddened  tones, 

We  heard  on  the  desert  sands; 

We  heard  the  noon-day  prayer  go  up, 

With  the  lift  of  a  thousand  hands. 

"Allah  Akbar !" — the  Moghreb  dream 

Stall  lives,  hot  souls  to  fan, 

While  cities  crumble  from  White  Tangiers 

Down  to  the  Black  Sudan. 


<TO 


"SEALED  ORDERS" 

As  stealthily  as  the  tide  recedes,  the  battle-fleet  slips 

down, 
With  turret-masts  enveiled  in  sleep,  where  the  sullen 

"killers"   frown, 
And  every  mother's  son  aboard  from  "shore-leave" 

in  the  town. 

The  port-holes  hide  in  the  purple  haze  that  over 
hangs  the  sea, 

The  savage  funnels  spit  black  smoke  across  the 
weather-lee, 

The  waves  awash  croon  soft  and  low  a  good-night 
melody. 

"Good-night!  Good-night!"  but  no  man  knows 
what  this  calm  night  may  bring, 

For  swift  as  fate  is  Death  unleashed  when  Mars' 
mad  tigers  spring. 

"Lights  out !"  is  flashed  along  the  fleet.  War  looms 
a  living  thing. 

[10] 


O  these  are  the  floating  monsters  that  carry  a  pent- 
up  hell, 

Where  the  powder-song  of  the  magazine  is  wed  to 
the  shrieking  shell — 

Yet  these  great  ships  of  war  on  watch  protect  the 
nation  well. 

These  prowling  lions  of  the  deep  strike  terror  with 

their  roar, 
Then    lightnings    flash    and    thunders    crash     and 

wreckage  strews  the  shore — 
But  better  far  the  deep-sea  fight  than  blood  across 

our  door. 


[11] 


SUNDOWN  OVER  RHEIMS  CATHEDRAL 

The  sunset's  royal  livery  is  thrown, 

With  all  its  lavish  colors,  at  the  last, 
Across  each  wounded  spire,  each  stricken  stone, 

Symbolic  of  the  Past. 

The  soul  of  dauntless  splendor  lingers  still 
Around  this  noble  pile,  upreared  to  One 

Whose  thought  with  darkness  all  the  Earth  might  fill, 
At  quench  of  sun. 

Alas !  no  more  proud  peals  float  on  the  air — 

The  throats  of  those  great  bells  are  choked  with 
tears, 

And  there  is  desolation  everywhere — 
Ye  savage  years! 

A  brooding  ghost  of  loneliness  and  loss 

Walks  down  these  aisles  once  dear  to  lovely  Peace, 
For  here  the  hate  of  men  scarred  Christ's  meek  cross, 

Without  surcease. 

[12] 


And  yet,  the  sunset,  steeping  all  the  earth 

In  beauty,  seems  to  lay  a  reverend  kiss 
On  Rheims,  as  if  to  say  "Thou'lt  have  new  birth, 


Greater  than  this." 


"From  nave  and  dome  and  spire  thy  lights  shall  shine, 
Te  Deums  shall  go  forth  on  winds  abroad; 

Thanksgiving,  Peace  and  Joy  shall  yet  be  thine — 
Sentry  of  God !" 


[13] 


JAMES  NICOLL  JOHNSTON 

(In  memoriam.) 

I  will  not  weave  a  garland  for  him  now, 
Entwined  with  flowers  of  song  and  silver  praise, 
But  I  would  fain  recall  his  peace-lit  days, 
And  lay  love's  hand  in  sorrow  on  his  brow. 

No  more  he  goes  where  chirping  blackbirds  throng, 
As  twilight  bathes  dear  Donegal  in  dreams; 
Those  faery-haunted  hills  and  singing  streams 
Keep  tryst  for  him,  remembering  his  song. 

Dust  unto  dust,  so  reads  the  Law  for  man, 
And  yet  a  thousand  summers  shall  return — 
The  rose  shall  live  again,  new  sunsets  burn — 
The  royal  woods  shall  hear  the  Pipes  of  Pan — 

And  he,  Apollo's  child,  who  visioned  high, 
May  we  not  say  his  Spirit  shall  rejoice, 
Hearing  forever  Nature's  tranquil  voice, 
Entranced  with  scenes  unviewed  by  mortal  eye? 
[14] 


Lo,  he  is  gone,  and  all  his  songs  are  done, 
But  Beauty  that  he  shaped  shall  never  pass ; 
For  as  each  year  returns  the  smiling  grass, 
So  fair  shall  bloom  his  songs,  yea  every  one. 

Time's  friendship,  fields,  the  sea,  Love's  mystic  bars, 
At  one  with  these,  his  spirit  now  shall  see 
Life's  hidden  book  through  Death's  wide  mystery, 
With  eyes  that  drink  the  secrets  of  the  stars. 


[15] 


THE  LUSITANIA'S  DEAD 

Over  the  loved  ones  billows  roll, 

The  bright  Sun  warms  the  deep ; 
No  more  for  them  stern  stress  of  soul, 

Eternal  is  their  sleep. 
Lord,  grant  them  rest,  the  young,  the  old, 

Who  lie  on  Ocean's  bed; 
In  Thy  great  arms  do  Thou  enfold 

The  gallant  dead. 

Across  their  eyes  the  sea-weed  blooms, 

And  finny  creatures  play ; 
No  more  for  them  glad  love-lit  rooms, 

For  ended  is  their  day. 
Lord,  grant  them  rest,  that  silent  throng, 

So  swiftly  from  us  fled, 
And  bless  with  Thy  soft  evensong 

The  holy  dead. 

On  golden  locks*  or  hair  grown  white 
The  ghostly  moonbeams  fall ; 
[16] 


The  sea-wind  kisses  them  good-night, 
While  Triton  sounds  his  call. 

Lord,  grant  them  rest,  yea  every  one, 
Let  peace  of  Thine  be  spread 

Around  them  now,  whose  lives  are  done 
The  cherished  dead. 


[17] 


THE  RAINBOW 

Thou  art  a  promise  hanging  high 
Across  the  recent  flame-swept  sky, 

That  peace  shall  come,  whate'er  betide, 
When  thunders  rock,  and  tempests  ride. 

Thou'rt  like  a  ribbon,  bright  and  fair, 
With  colors  strung  from  angels'  hair. 

Thou  art  Earth's  tender  trilogy, 
Of  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity. 


[18] 


VIOLETS  IN  A  FLOWER-SHOP 

The  dusk  is  fading  like  a  folded  flower, 

That  voiceless  evenglow  matching  their  eyes, 

For  hue  and  tenderness;  the  rich  day  dies, 

The  stars  come  out  to  hymn  the  ritual-hour 

Of  sylvan  trysts,  and  wings,  and  whispering  shower, 

But  here,  behind  these  garish  windows  rise 

Sheaf  upon  sheaf  of  violets  whose  cries 

Fall  on  deaf  ears, — like  huddled  slaves  they  cower. 

They  shall  be  sold  as  souvenirs,  a  token 

Of  love  from  lovers  happy  in  the  spring; 

Above  light  hearts  they'll  weep,  whose  hearts  are 

broken, — 

Homesick  for  fields  they  are  remembering. 
And  many  with  a  faltering,  last  breath, 
Shall  die  upon  the  cold,  white  face  of  Death. 


[19] 


THE  MARCH  OF  HUMANITY 

From  golden  dawn  to  purple  dusk, 
Piled  high  with  bales  of  smiles  and  tears, 
The  caravans  are  dropping  down 
Across  the  desert-sands  of  years. 

And  when  the  moonlight's  kiss  is  sweet, 
Still  holds  the  trail  a  countless  throng ; 
Betimes  a  weary  camel  halts 
Before  an  oasis  of  song. 

But  always  toward  the  beckoning  West — 
The  sunset-land  of  heart's  desire, 
The  caravans  go  down  to  Death 
The  king  of  Zidon  and  of  Tyre. 


PAGEANT 

Blue-gray  Dawn,  and  shadows  flee 
Like  frightened  children  through  the  mist, 
Before  the  Marchers  of  the  Morn, 
In  mauve  and  amethyst. 

Artillery  along  the  clouds 

Spurts  rainbow-streams  on  copse  and  lawn, 

As  Day,  the  General,  signals  for 

The  red  barrage  of  Dawn. 

Behind  a  curtain-sky  of  fire, — 
That  jumbled  flood  of  turquoise  sea, — 
The  sunbeams  swoop,  like  eagles,  down : 
Dawn's  glittering  infantry. 

Then  clash  the  arms  of  Day  and  Night ; 
But  Night's  redoubts  are  weak  and  old, 
And  where  Day's  victors  sweep  the  field 
They  loose  a  shower  of  gold. 
[21] 


Yet  violets  and  daffodils, 
And  little  blades  of  sleepy  grass, 
With  me,  of  all  Life's  living  things, 
Behold  this  pageant  pass. 

Then  standing  hushed  among  the  flowers, 
While  Earth  drinks  deep  the  wine  of  Spring, 
I  hear  the  rivers  raise  glad  voice, 
The  green-robed  valleys  sing. 


[22] 


SONG-MAKERS 

No  more  we  chide  the  drifting  dust  of  years, 
For  down  the  Morning's  stairs  Pan's  music's 

blown ; 
The  Day  Star's  silver  wreath  with  Evening 

blends, 
And  Dusk  puts  on  her  purple  robes  alone. 

Have  we  not  heard  Life's  challenge  in  the  dawn, 
And  seen  the  golden  Phoenix  ringed  with  fire? 
The  Rose  of  Love  showed  us  her  naked  soul, 
Beneath  a  star-cloaked  sea  of  old  desire. 

Now  bear  we  all  the  Bowl  of  Dreams  on  high, 
And  flaunt  our  crowns  of  joy,  with  poppies 

hung; 

Beside  a  sleeping  lake  the  lilies  leaned, 
And  'round  our  feet  the  magic  whispers  flung. 


[23] 


The  Night's  cool  voice  is  stirred  to  fluting 

strains, 

Earth  spills  her  scarlet  wine  to  keep  us  strong ; 
For  Beauty,  setting  fingers  at  our  lips, 
Unsealed  our  hearts  with  song. 


[24,] 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  ELMS 

The  sunset's  kiss,  with  lingering  desire, 
Unheeded,  falls  upon  the  elms  asleep ; 
They  are  as  lovers,  sick  of  passion's  fire, 
And  crave  the  Moon  that  rules  the  starry  deep. 

But  when  that  haughty  Queen  rides  down  the 

lane, 

And  blows  them  kisses  in  a  silver  throng ; 
A  gush  of  music  floods  the  elms  again, 
And  every  leaf  is  exquisite  with  song. 


[25] 


TO  A  FIREFLY 

The  wonder-works  of  Nature  are  sublime ! 
When  that  the  throbbing  heat  of  day  is  o'er, 
And  lovely  Night's  asleep  on  Summer's  shore, 
Thy  flashing  flight  of  wings  moves  the  wild  thyme 
To  ghostly  beauty ;  ah !  thy  path's  a  rhyme, 
Symphonically  sweet,  where  fairies  pour 
Harvest  of  song  to  welcome  thee  the  more, 
Thou  messenger  of  Earth's  glad  wooing-time! 
The  wonder-works  of  Nature  are  supreme : 
Star-jewels  blaze  in  the  vast  heavens  above — 
Here  thou  dost  flare  thy  way,  soft  as  a  dream, 
Skimming  the  grassy  plain  and  gossamered  grove, 
Till  thou  must  to  all  creeping  creatures  seem 
God's  very  Herald  of  Light  and  Peace  and  Love. 


[26] 


SONG 

Only  a  time  for  the  watching  of  wings  that  cleave 

to  the  blue-roofed  sky, 
When  the  sun  lies  flat,  like  a  plate  of  gold,  over 

the  mountains  high ; 
"Tis  then  we'll  take  to  the  Sunrise  Trail,  and  bid 

the  town  good-bye. 

Only  a  time  for  the  shouting  of  winds  that  flirt 

with  the  sycamore  trees, 
As  we  drink  of  the  milk  of  the  old  Earth  Mother, 

for  the  joy  that  is  steeped  in  the  lees, 
And  we  rest  in  the  house  that  was  built  for  love, 

with  its  green  and  crimson  frieze. 

Only  a  time  for  the  music  of  brooks  that  romp 

in  the  sunset's  aisle, 
With  a  parting  kiss  for  the  queenly  Dusk  that 

waits  for  the  Moon's  young  smile, 
Till  the  stars  gather  up  their  golden  tents,  and 

march  in  single  file. 
[27] 


Only  a  time  for  the  weaving  of  words  where  the 

tide  of  youth  flows  strong, 
And  our  feet  are  light  on  a  hill-side  road  that 

stretches  far  and  long ; 
Only  a  joy  that  is  steel,  and  the  Night,  the  flint 

that  strikes  to  song. 


[28] 


THE  BELOVED 

Her  love  is  like  the  treasured  scent 

Of  roses  laid  in  Attic  j  ars, 

In  whose  dear  fragrance  there  are  blent 

White  dreams  of  youth,  and  summer  stars. 

The  hallowed  music  of  her  smile 
Oft  stills  for  me  Life's  rude  alarms, 
For  glad  am  I,  and  sheltered  while 
Held  in  the  haven  of  her  arms. 

I  care  no  whit  for  riches  now — 
Eternal  ecstasies  of  Spring 
Are  mine,  and  the  brave  queenly  brow 
Of  her  whose  love  means  everything. 

Her  love  is  like  a  sacred  shrine, 
Where  moon-kissed  lilies  idly  stir, 
And  down  Night's  silver  stairs  divine, 
I  come — a  silent  worshiper. 

[29] 


ANTICIPATION 

A  little  house  with  flowering  vines, 
And  a  window  wide  to  the  sea ; 
These  will  I  have  when  my  true  love  comes 
To  keep  me  company ; 

With  the  song  of  a  thrush  'neath  the  apple- 
blooms 

To  gladden  her  and  me. 
Pink  apple  blooms  and  the  drone  of  the  bees 
In  the  hush  of  the  golden  noon, 
And  the  tender  shade  of  an  old  pine-tree, 
A-stir  to  an  old  love-tune ; 
There  will  be  silence  and  honey-sweet — 
Under  the  moon. 

For  out  of  the  arms  of  the  fragrant  Summer, 
And  warmed  by  the  cheery  face  of  the  Sun, 
There  will  be  silence  and  honey-sweet — 
When  the  wonderful  day  is  done, 
And  the  hours  will  blend  like  star-lit  spaces, 
So  shining  every  one.  .  .  . 
[30] 


All  this  shall  be  (O  Dream  of  Dreams 
That  gilds  Life's  darkening  gloam!) 
When  once  My  Love  with  smiling  lips 
Comes  home. 


[31] 


MANHATTAN— FROM  THE  SOUND 

Like  some  vast,  hushed  Lyre,  the  City  looms 
Against  the  leaping  splendor  of  the  Dawn ; 
Not  yet  the  clangorous  tide  of  traffic's  on 
Its  mighty  strings;  the  flushed  East  burns  and 

blooms — 

A  sea  of  trembling  flame — those  million  rooms 
Shall  soon  belch  forth  their  streams  of  Brain  and 

Brawn, 

As  sleep-bleared  eyes  see  Night's  kind  arms  with 
drawn, 

Ev'n  as  the  hordes  that  once  built  Egypt's  tombs. 
And  now,  the  Sun!  men's  feet  salute  the  sun, 
Shaking  the  Lyre  to  thunder-throbbing  strains ; 
Look !  o'er  its  chords  Life's  fingers  fiercely  run, 
Till  grave  Herculean  captains  grip  the  reins 
Of  industry;  Now  from  ten-thousand  lanes 
Yon  Titan  throats  proclaim  that  Day's  begun. 


[32] 


THE  MISSING 

(In  memory  of  J.  E.  M.) 

Spring  will  come  with  her  dear  caresses, 

Touching  the  fields  to  green  again ; 
Spring  will  come  with  her  vagrant  tresses, 

Strewing  wild  blossoms  o'er  woodland  and  glen. 
But  never  the  loved  one  returns  to  the  living, 

To  tread  the  old  pathways  and  mingle  with  men. 

Spring  will  come  in  her  robes  of  gladness, 
Leading  the  south  wind  over  the  lea; 

Spring  will  come  with  her  girlish  madness, 
Singing  new  songs  of  joy  to  be. 

But  never  the  loved  one  returns  to  the  home-hearth, 
Never  the  loved  one  fares  homeward  to  me. 

Spring  will  come  with  her  music  and  laughter, 
Sunlight  and  starlight  and  moonlight  and  dew ; 

Spring  will  come  and  for  long  days  after 
Skies  will  be  curtained  with  magical  blue. 

But  never  the  loved  one  shall  smile  me  a  greeting, — 
Whose  grave  I  have  decked  with  rosemary  and  rue. 
[33] 


TOYS 

Man's  life  is  as  a  gift,  a  precious  token, 
To  play  with,  or  to  treasure,  but  not  to  keep ; 
For  soon  or  late  the  wonderful  bauble  is  broken, 
And  then,  like  little  children,  grown  weary  of  play, 
At  the  end  of  the  day, 
We  sleep. 


[34] 


THE  TRYSTING 

Her  feet  make  music  on  the  grass, 
Entwined  with  laughter  of  the  breeze; 
And  where  the  roses  watch  her  pass. 
The  Moon  weaves  silver  tapestries. 
In  all  the  world  no  grieving  mars — 
Nor  evermore  shall  mar,  it  seems — 
The  hushed,  lone  beauty  of  the  stars, 
The  jewelled  carpet  of  my  dreams. 

I  was  a  pilgrim  on  the  road, 

Where  skies  were  gray  and  leaves  lay  sere; 

Where  nightly  'round  my  bleak  abode, 

Blew  winds  of  bitterness  and  fear. 

She  comes  and  lo !   the  Night  flames  forth, 

To  scatter  far  Life's  mad  alarms, 

A  Prince  am  I  upon  the  earth, 

With  My  Beloved  in  my  arms! 


[35] 


APHRODITE 

Her  eyes  are  mellow  landscapes  of  desire, 
Her  lips  are  roses,  and  her  heart's  the  Sun, 
Through  which  gold  streams  of  love  and  beauty  run, 
Sounding  the  chorus  of  a  poets'  choir. 
Yet  her  proud  smile  is  but  the  Moon's  cold  fire, 
Her  hands  hold  all  earth's  battles  lost  and  won, — 
Crusades  and  spoils  sunk  in  oblivion, 
Or  burning  on  Humanity's  red  pyre. 

Her  hair  are  strands  of  dreams  for  which  men  die, 
Beating,  like  prisoners,  against  Fate's  bars; 
She  is  the  world's  mirage  that  flames  on  high, 
The  ghostly  light  that  lures  the  sinking  spars ; 
The  thunder-menace  in  a  blackening  sky, 
The  peace  that  cloaks  a  Cavalcade  of  stars. 


[36] 


SUMMER  DAWN 

Now  doth  sweet  Nature  poise  her  magic  brush 
For  the  supreme,  last  effort;  'tranced  in  dreams, 
The  spangled  fields  lie  liveried  brave  in  green, 
While  swift  the  blue  demesne 
Of  dauntless  sky  turns  to  a  rosy  blush, 
Flecked  with  the  flashing  sunlight's  golden  beams. 

The  palpitating  hush  of  beauty  falls 

Over  the  land ;  like  elfin  troops  in  white, 

The  chaste  satyrians  stand  in  plumed  array, 

Kissed  by  the  diamond-spray 

Of  honey-dew ;  the  red-bird  roysterer  calls 

From  copse  to  copse  while  breaks  the  morning  bright. 

Heart  of  my  Heart,  look !     Nature  paints  the  world 
In  rainbow  colors — bloom  and  shrub  and  tree 
Throb  with  new  life.     The  South  Wind  croons  a  song 
Of  wild-wood  hours  so  long; 
For  Summer's  joyous  banner  is  unfurled, 
Deep-blazoned  with  Dawn's  gorgeous  pageantry. 
[37] 


When  Summer  dies,  then  does  it  seem  to  me 
The  flowers  grieve  that  soon  for  them  shall  be 

The  end  of  life;  no  more  for  them  the  rise 
Of  throbbing  sun-dawn,  gold  across  the  lea! 

I  think  the  dew's  but  tears  from  Pan's  poor  eyes, 
When  Summer  dies. 

And  she,  my  love,  does  she  have  aught  of  cheer, 
Now  that  the  end  of  loveliness  draws  near? 

What  bodes  those  vague,  unearthly  forest-cries? 
Are  not  those  robin-notes  surcharged  with  fear? 

Ah,  sorrow  seems  to  tinge  the  very  skies 
When  Summer  dies! 

Yet  though  all  Nature  wither  like  a  leaf, 
And  life  seem  harshly  gray  and  choked  with  grief, 

Be  sure  brave  Virtue  ever  wins  the  prize, 
Whether  our  lives  be  overlong  or  brief. 

Yes,  on  the  world  God's  richest  love-light  lies, 
When  Summer  dies. 
'[38] 


A  RAIN-DROP 

I  am  a  bubble  in  the  heart  of  things, 

A  momentary  miracle  that  springs 

Across  the  world's  vast  face,  and  then  is  gone. 

So  like  a  human  presence,  as  it  glows 

On  earth  a  space,  'twixt  Dawn  and  Sunset's  close, 

Till  Death's  hot  drought  or,  yea,  his  freezing  snows, 

Then,  lo,  like  me, 

Back  to  the  heart  of  things 

It  goes. 


[39] 


AT  DANTE'S  TOMB 

The  Night  breathes  song  with  starry  eloquence 
Where  now  the  stern-faced  Dreamer  keeps  his 

sleep ; 
A  peasant  doffs  his  cap — our  pulses  leap, 

And  Fame  takes  on  a  huge  significance. 

Here  Time  guards  well  the  gates  of  eminence, — 
Above  the  Tuscan  hills  the  airmen  sweep, 
Like  birds  of  prey ;  the  clocks  to  midnight  creep, 

The  hour  strikes — heads  bow  in  reverence. 

From  out  the  mounded  dust  of  centuries, 

Thy  dreams  are  flowering,  Poet,  though  no  more 
Canst  thou  go  musing  by  blue  Arno's  shore, 

Thy  mind  at  work  with  mighty  mysteries. 
Yet  hush ! — far  off  resounds  the  boom  of  war, 

Symbolic  of  thy  life's  experiences. 


[40] 


THE  "BENCHER'S"  CHRISTMAS-EVE 

He  passed  the  homes  on  the  Avenue,  where  the  lamps 
of  the  Mighty  shine, 

Where  celebrations  marked  his  eyes,  with  laughter, 
song  and  wine; 

With  weary  feet  and  a  breaking  heart,  he  came  and 
sat  him  down, 

To  watch  the  merry  throngs  go  by  on  Christmas-Eve, 
down-town. 

(A  homeless  bunch  of  rags,  forsooth,  on  whom  police 
men  frown.) 

The  jostling  crowds,  with  packages,   rushed  gaily 

through  the  Square, 
The  Christmas  chimes  of  Trinity  smote  softly  on  the 

air; 

Somewhere,  far  off,  on  Childhood's  hills,  he  heard  a 
mother's  song — 


[41] 


A  thousand  years  ago  it  seemed, — how  long  it  was, 

how  long ! 
(To-night  the  North  Wind's  knife  cut  deep,  and  he 

was  never  strong.) 

A  young  girl  passed  with  swinging  stride,  Youth's  fire 
in  her  eyes, 

A  flock  of  newsies  scurried  by,  with  loud,  discor 
dant  cries ; 

A  snowflake  touched  his  chalk-like  face — he  heard 
a  shopper  say: 

"It's  tough  for  'bums'  this  winter-night,  and  he  is 
old  and  gray." 

(Just  then  a  limousine  whirled  by,  with  people  from 
the  play.) 

"O  Christ,"  he  cried,  "they  say  the  Poor  are  pleasing 
in  Your  sight, 

"A  dirty  dreg  of  earth,  I  pray  to  You  this  Christ 
mas  night; 

"Take  me  away  from  all  this  light,  this  music,  and 
this  mirth, 

"For  hunger  and  great  loneliness  are  all  I  have  on 
earth, — 

"My  mother's  arms  I'd  like  to  feel  around  me,  as  at 
birth."  .... 

[42] 


The  North  Wind  laughed  with  ghoulish  glee,  more 

fiercely  growled  the  storm, 
The  snowflakes  fell  like  a  shroud  of  death  across  his 

stiffening  form, — 
His  mother's  arms  were  'rownd  him,  she  made  him 

snug  and  warm. 


[43] 


THE  NUPTIALS 

(Joseph  Plunkett,  Irish  poet-patriot-martyr,  was  married 
at  evening  and  executed  the  next  day  at  sunrise  in  connection 
with  the  Sinn  Fein  Rebellion.) 

O  Love  of  all  my  life,  the  day  is  done. 

Look!     Night  throws  purple  shadows  on  the  sea — 

Cling  closer,  Love,  through  all  eternity 

We  shall  recall  this  hour;  there  is  One, 

Besides  ourselves,  albeit,  like  the  Sun — 

Radiant  and  high — shall  mold  my  dreams  for  me — 

Shall  give  to  Erin  strength  to  battle  free, 

While  some  proud  thrones  sink  to  oblivion. 

Time  hastes;  soon  Dawn  shall  wipe  away  the  stars 
And  my  young  life ;  yet,  if  I  e'er  had  fears 
Of  Death,  they've  left  me  now — like  rose-laid  jars, 
Love's  honeyed  sweetness  soothes  me,  and  appears 
The  Vision  I  have  glimpsed  through  prison  bars: 
Brave  Erin  smiling  through  a  veil  of  tears. 


[44] 


The  velvet-footed  Night  lays  healing  hands 
On  lake  and  river  and  sleeping  meadow-lands. 
Across  the  restless   city  moon-beams  play, 
Turning  the  fevered  dark  to  silver  day. 
O  Moon  of  Memory,  Queen  of  old  years, 
Mistress  of  the  world's  laughter  and  its  tears, 
Long  since  did  Vergil — laurellel  poet — raise, 
From  out  his  store  of  jewelled  nights  and  days, 
A  mighty  monument  of  song  to  thee! 
Full-fashioned  out  of  vast  infinity, 
Thou   wearest    evening's   gallant   robe    of  blue — 
For  ages  old,  yet  magically  new — 
With  all  the  grace  and  grandeur  of  a  queen, 
Traversing  thy  demesne. 

Rose-time  of  youth !  ye  vision-straining  faces ! 
Far,  far  we  wandered  over  moon-blown  spaces, 
By  hawthorn-ways,  beyond  the  reed-lined  river, 
Long  seeking  Beauty — her,  the  gracious  giver. 
And  once,  so  near,  we  almost  clutched  her  dress, 


Yet  when  we  looked,  lo,  there  was  Nothingness — 
Nothing  but  dreams  and  wistful  after-glow — 
How  well  we  know! 

And  as  thou  wanest,  Moon,  our  lives  shall  pass, 
And  we  shall  be  like  blades  of  riven  grass. 
Dust  to  the  dust,  borne  on  a  vagrant  breeze, 
Freighted  with  bits  of  lovers'  melodies. 
Love's   heartbreak,  music,  wine   and  wayside  song, 
These,  too,  shall  pass,  nor  be  remembered  long. 
But  O,  my  heart!  we  who  have  wooed  the  Night 
Of  moon-hushed  avenues  and  rapturous  sky — 
Illimitable  lanes  of  witchery — 
Into  the  Great  Beyond,  with  eyes  alight, 
Shall   we   not   fare,   like   eagles   homeward   veering, 
Nor  anything  of  Death's  adventure  fearing? 
With   arms   outstretched  to   greet   the  old  Earth- 
Mother — 

Brother  with  Brother, 
We  shall  arise  tor  make  the  final  quest, — 

Yes,  this  is  best: 

To  go  by  night,  along  a  windless  shore, 
In  comradeship  with  Beauty  evermore, — 
Moon-silence,  7?eace,  and  Death  for  dearest  friend, 

Wh<en  life's  at  an  end. 


TRANSPOSITION 

In  those  dim  years  when  yet  your  youth  a-flower, 
Threw  off  a  radiance,  rich  as  liquid  gold; 
I  stood,  appalled,  before  your  Beauty's  power, 
And  I  felt  old. 

But  now,  though  like  an  autumn-dusk  you  fade, 
The  memory  of  your  love  through  heart  and  tongue, 
Makes  life  a  Spring-lit  road,  with  violets  laid, 
And  I  am  young. 


SACRIFICE 

Sing  not  to  me  of  earthly  power, 

For  winds  make  sport  of  the  dust  of  kings; 
In  many  an  immemorial  hour 

Men  fought  and  bled  for  trivial  things. 
Sing  me  the  prayer  that  lifts  from  some  white  heart, 
As  Earth's  immortal  part. 

For  deeds  that  live  to  gain  reward, 

And  dreams  that  barter  Love  for  Fame: 

These  all  shall  die  as  with  a  sword, 
And  be  forever  linked  with   shame. 

The  great  white  visions  born  of  pain  and  death, 

These  have  eternal  breath. 

And  as  a  comet  sweeps  the  sky, 

To  reappear  through  cycling  years, 

So  shall  Love's  deeds  supreme  and  high 
Enkindle  hope  again  from  tears. 

Sing  me  Love's  utter  sacrifice  and  loss — 

Christ's  death  upon  the  Cross. 
[48] 


RECOMPENSE 

Against  the  keen-edged  winds  of  life, 
That  pitilessly  leap  and  dart ; 
You  warmed  me,  with  true  mother-love, 
At  the  fires  of  your  heart. 

Now  that  your  days  of  bloom  are  spent, 
And  Age,  slow-creeping,  chills  your  form; 
Close-sheltered  in  my  filial  love, 
What  matters  cold  or  storm! 


•[49] 


Night's  decorated  altar  throbs  and  glows 
Far  out  in  sacred  stillnesses  of  space. 
The  moon,  for  sanctuary  lamp,  has  place 

Of  proud  dominion;  starry  blooms  unclose, 

Like  red  and  purple  tapers ;  darkness  shows 
Blue  sky  for  altar-cloth ;  and  there  is  trace 
Of  filmy  clouds  to  serve  as  altar-lace, 

Pure-white  and  clean  as  winter's  driven  snows. 

Sweep  low  your  matchless  music,  starlit  hours, 
Along  earth's  sleeping  roofs,  that  men  may 

hear! 

And  'wake  our  souls  to  beauty  fair  as  flowers 
That,  smiling,  meet  God's   smile  year  after 

year. 

Waft  down  some  singing  angel's  keen  delight 
Across  the  panorama  of  the  night. 


[50] 


SUNSET  AT  SEA 

Silence,  attuned  to  music,  rules  the  Deep. 
Like  some  vast,  filigreed  fan,  the  dauntless  sky 
Spreads  wide  its  blood-red  splendors  royally, 
For  Day,  the  Kingly  One,  doth  couch  in  sleep. 
Across  the  frenzied  West  weird  spectres  creep, 
Lashed  on  by  that  perpetual  Power  on  high, 
Which  whirls  this  pin-point  world,  where  you  and  I — 
Mites  of  creation,  watch  the  fire-tides  sweep. 

So  Adam,  haply,  ranging  earth's  bleak  shore, 
Close-clasping  Eve,  his  helpmate,  by  the  hand, 
Once  marked  the  great  Sun  kiss  the  fading  strand, 
His  eyes  remorseful  that  it  smiled  no  more 
On  him  and  his,  glad  in  God's  garden-land, 
His  ears  new-choked  with  Life's  stern,  sullen  roar. 


[51] 


ILLUSION 

When  'blue-rrobed    Evening1   climbs   Night's    altar-* 

stairs, 

And  hides  from  view  the  dead  Day's  sanctities, 
Her  image  comes  before  my  lonely  eyes, 
To  wipe  away  old  griefs  and  dark  despairs. 
Warm  arms  creep  softly  'round  me  unawares, 
Once  more  I  hear  those  tender,  low  replies, 
And  Peace  comes  to  my  heart;  Life's  clangor  dies, 
For  Love  walks  with  me  down  bright  thorough 
fares.  .  .  . 

Dreams  play  strange  pranks,  and  yet  I  swear  she 

came, 

With  smile-enwreathed  face,  across  the  grass, 
To  keep  me  company  till  night  should  pass, 
All  for  the  sake  of  Love's  immortal  name. 
Ah !  look — Dawn's  rosy  curtains  flare  and  flame, 
And  I  have  broken  Memory's  looking-glass. 

[52] 


OLD  GARDENS  AND  OLD  DREAMS 

Old  gardens  and  old  dreams — here  strays  Delight, 
To  loose  the  chains  of  care  from  weary  feet; 
When  Morning's  kiss  falls  sweet 
Upon  the  red-gowned  rose  or  pansy    trim, 
Contentment  cools  the  soul;  the  robin's  hymn 
Sounds  like  a  nun's  white  prayer  at  close  of  night. 
Memories  long  dead — proud  passions   of  the  past, 
(Youth's  bravest  first,  Life's  broken-visioned  last) 
Once  more — pale  wraiths — roam  down  these  green 
wood-aisles — 

Old  lovers  with  old  smiles ; 
'Twixt  vagrant,  wind-blown  spaces, 
Come    forth    old    friends — the    dear,    the    cherished 

faces, 

Forgotten  in  Life's  fevered  afterwhiles. 
Here,  'mid  the  laughing  grass  and  shy-lipped  clover, 
With  songs  of  Youth  and  music  echoing, 
Queen  Beauty  breeds  new  forms,  all  brimmed  over 
With  careless  rapture  of  eternal  Spring — 

Gay  fantasies  that  cling 
[53] 


Around  the  dreaming  heart ;  here  glad-winged  hours 
Flit  through  the  frail  battalions  of  the  flowers; 
And  when  the  Sun  of  Noon  is  on  his  throne, 

I  walk  alone, 
Drinking  the  Cup  of  Peace;  yes,  this  is  best, 

Under  the  tented  sky, 
Surrounded  by  dear  Summer's  artistry, 

To  rest. 

But  when  Night's  purple  breast 
Is  folded  'neath  the  sheltering  wings  of  sleep, 

There  comes  a  solace  deep — 
The  hushful  voice  of  the  caressing  rain — 
Far,  far  I  slip  from  War  and  Blood  and  Pain, 

And  I  would  fain 

Be  gathered  up  in  the  soft  arms  of  Death, 
While  blows  Earth's  rain-sweet  breath, 

Across  the  flowers. 


[54] 


CONTEMPLATION 

Yes,  this  is  best,  O  heart! 

Here's  peace,  and  the  cool  touch  of  pitying  Night. 

No  more  around  us  ghosts  of  dead  dreams  hover. 

'Tis  true,  thy  wounds  still  bleed  and  sorely  smart, 

Yet  moon-lit  trees  shall  heal  them  with  delight. 

Tear  out  the  ragged  page  of  memory, 

O  poppy-poisoned  lover! 

Along  these  star-hushed  pathways  you  shall  run, 

Forgetting  Life  flung  roses  in  the  sun — 

Roses  that  turned  to  dust;  ah!  this  is  best: 

To  lay  old  tears  and  partings  on  the  breast 

Of    uncomplaining    Night.   ...  Be    glad!    be    free! 

Go  not   through  Pan's   cathedral,   sadly   sighing, 

Deaf  to  his  music ;  you  shall  soon  recover, 

O  heart,  amid  Night's  solitude  undying, 

For  now  Love's  fevered  days  and  dreams  are  over. 

Night  and  the  stars — and  winds  forever  blowing, 
Heart,  these  are  yours;  the  mating-songs  of  birds, 
The  patient  pines  that  murmur  cryptic  words, 
And  laughing  rills,  and  quiet  rivers  flowing. 
![55] 


You  shall  be  one  with  the  majestic  Sea. 

Hold  converse  with  the  slumber-lidded  hills, 

Whose  calm,  mysterious  beauty  ever  thrills 

The  soul  to  thoughts  of  immortality. 

Yet,  heart,  before  you  take  the  Night  for  bride, 

Lift  up   a  farewell-prayer  to  the  One 

Who  made  Love's  noon-day  garden  like  the  sun, 

Wherein  no  darkness  came  till  Summer  died. 

Wisdom  and  Truth  and  Beauty,  and  brave  tears, 

These  all  you  have,  O  heart — so  let  it  be. 

The  Rain's  warm  kiss  and  Night's  immensity 

Shall  give  you  songs  to  speed  the  lagging  years. 

Yes,  this  is  best — you  shall  be  Night's  fond  lover, 
For  now  Love's  fevered  days  and  dreams  are  over. 


[56] 


REQUIEM 

Darken  the  lights  on  the  lonely  threshold, 

Life  will  not  trouble  her  now  with  his  merciless  din ; 

Over  the  wreck  of  the  bitterest  pain  and  the  parting, 

Love  could  not  enter  in — 

Darken  the  lights ! 

Lower    the    shades    on    the    moon,-washeid   windows, 
Better  for  her  Death's  peace  away  from  the  light; 
Cover  her  soft  with  the  magical  mantle  of  silence — 
Warp  of  the  summer  night — 
Lower  the  shades! 

| 

Bolt  up  the  doors  to  the  room  where  she's  lying, 
Sorrow  will  thrall  her  no  more,  now  life's  at  an  end; 
Dreams  she  had  known,  and  lovers  heartless  and 

faithless, 

But  Death  was  her  loyal  friend — 
Bolt  up  the  doors ! 

[57] 


She  is  at  rest  beyond  Life's  turmoil, 

Needless  your  pity,  or  any  fond  vigil  you'd  keep ; 

Life  that  was  harsh  to  her,  now  is  at  work  with  the 

living, 

Death  that  was  kind,  gave  her  sleep — 
She  is  at  rest. 


[58] 


THE  DYING  YEAR 

(1917) 

Dirge-toned  and  slow  a  Requiem  of  Death 
Re-echoes  down  from  Night's  moon-haunted  tower, 
Reviving  scenes  of  birth  and  winey  breath 
In  Nature's  gay,  untrammelled  June-lit  bower. 

Gray-gowned,  the  penitential  seasons  pass, 
Each  one  more  lovely  for  the  trembling  tear 
That,  like  a  pearl,  drops  on  the  dying  grass, 
Already  doomed  to  shroud  the  dying  year. 

Spring  walks  with  maybell-chaplets  'round  her  hair, 
And  Summer  goes,  rose-crowned,  into  the  dark; 
While  Autumn,  with  her  strong,  tanned  arms   and 

bare, 
Takes  leave  of  wrinkled  Winter  in  the  park. 

White-haired  and  icy-veined,  gaunt  Winter  stands, 
A  king  surveying  lands  beneath  his  thrall ; 
[59] 


And  'though  he  holds  a  scepter  in  his  hands, 
No  pomp  enhances  his  inaugural. 

Only  great  winds  that  herald  pain  and  loss, 
Impress  the  crown  of  war  on  Beauty's  brow — 
Upon  the  night  they  scroll  Earth's  bloody  cross, 
Reeking  pathetically  with  misery  now. 

The  star-attended  moon  that  rides  the  sky, 
Engendering  hushed  dreams  of  years  now  fled, 
Recalls  how  swift  Life's  mighty  moments  fly — 
To-night  I  know  another  year  is  dead. 


[60] 


SONG 

If  you  have  loved  and  lost,  lad, 
And  Life's  a  bitter  story ; 
Stop  not  to  count  the  cost,  lad, 
For  you  have  drunk  of  glory. 

But,  if  you've  loved  and  won,  lad, 
And  Life's  gold  dawn  is  'waking, 
Go,  sing  the  world  a  song,  lad, 
For  many  hearts   are  breaking. 

O  Love's  a  road  of  thorns  and  briers, 
You  cannot  stop  for  breath; 
It  leads  to  stars  and  rainbows, 
And,  sometimes,  lad,  to  death. 

But,  win  or  lose  in  love,  lad, 
Right  bravely  greet  the  morrow ! 
And  sing  a  song  of  love,  lad, 
For  love  is  joy  and  sorrow. 
[61] 


SEPTEMBER  DUSK 

It  is  the  silence  as  when  lovers  meet, 
After  the  slow,  revolving  change  of  years, 
When  all  Night's  plume-tossed  pageantry,  complete, 
Begins  to  move  through  purple  sky-portieres. 

Now  stars  are  clocks  that  chime  the  drowsy  hours 
Above   gray   lanes   where  ghostly   cedars   sleep ; 
And  grasses   stand  as   sentinels  to  flowers, 
Against  marauding  birds  that  earthward  sweep. 

It  has  the  childish  wistfulness  of  Death, 

,  0 

When  eyes  go  blind  before  Life's  beckoning  spire; 

Like  we — it  is  a  dream,  a  sea-blown  breath, 

That  stirs  dry  leaves,  splashed  red  with  sunset-fire. 

It  is  the  bugle  blown,  whosr  echoes  die 
Along  a  moon-tranced  beach  when  winds  are  still, — 
The  sadness  of  old  pines  that  know  the  cry 
Of   the    sad   whip-poor-will. 
[62] 


EXCURSION 

When  spendthrift  Morning  flings  his  gold 
Across  the  fields  of  jocund  red, 
Then  girlish  Autumn — supple,  bold, 
Springs  from  her  leafy,  virgin's  bed. 

The  hooded  sumachs  veil  their  eyes, 
The  maples*  cheeks  are  tinged  with  shame, 
For  Autumn   comes  with   swift   surprise, 
And  love  is  in  her  looks  aflame. 

To  waving  maize  and  alder-bloom 

She  shouts  "Good-Morning,"  while  the  breeze, 

For  mischief,   gives   her  elbow-room, 

Then  blows  her  skirts  above  her  knees. 

But  Autumn  laughs  and  scampers  down 
To  purple-oozing  hills  of  vine; 
And  drinks  until  her  russet-gown 
Is  stained  with  grape  and  berry-wine. 
[63] 


Then  mountain-ash  and  laurel  come 

Down  sunset-pathways   still   and  steep; 
'Mid  thrush's  song  and  insect's  hum, 
They  lead  the  hoyden  off  to  sleep. 

O  Autumn  is  a  tipsy  j  ade,  *< 

She  bids  "Good  Eve"  to  bird  and  flower, 
But  when  the  long  dusk-shadows  fade, 
She  scorns  her  maiden's  bed-time  hour. 

For  her  the  Moon's  rich  harvest-smile 
Falls  silver-soft  and  gently  slow; 
For  her  star-pageants,  mile  on  mile, 
Pass  by  in  wonder-streaming  show. 

Yet  earthly  things  are  brief  at  best, 
And  there's  a  sadness  in  her  eyes ; 
For  when  gray  Winter  stalks  the  West, 
The  lovely  Autumn  dies. 


164] 


LIFE'S   GRAY   SHADOWS 

Life  flung  us  lilies,  but  we  craved  Love's  wine, 
In  those  dear  lilac-dusks  of  long  ago; 

Blue  moons  of  fragrant  memory  are  mine: 

The  Spring's  caress,  your  eyes,  and  sunset-glow. 

Old,  starry  griefs  and  laughter  born  of  Youth 
I  plucked  for  you,  and  wove  into  a  song; 

The  magic  fire  that  leaps  to  fondle  Truth, 

Once  touched  my  lips  and  made  my  spirit  strong. 

Too  late  to  know  what  Love  in  silence  sings, 
My  ears  grew  deaf  to  his  immortal  call ; 

The  music  dies,  and  only  Sorrow  clings 

Around  two  hearts  that  still  remember  all — 

As  Life's  gray  shadows  fall. 


[65] 


ON  AN   AGED   POET  WHO   IS   FAILING 

The  iron  that  was  in  his  blood, 
And  once  ran  molten-red, 
Is  like  a  cooling  cinder-ash 
That  dies  when  flame  is  fled. 

The  tempered  steel  of  his  desire, 

That  flashed  Life's  sparks  so  long; 

Is   cloaked  with  Time's   slow-killing  rust — 

Once  he  was  young,  and  strong. 

The  gleaming  silver  of  his  mind — 
Ah,  who  shall  find  it  now? 
There's  silver  on  his  scanty  hair, 
And  wrinkles  on  his  brow. 

• 

But  of  his  dreams,  O  masters,  hear! 
Let  this  proud  tale  be  told : 
He  leaves  the  world,  as  heritage, 
A  hoard  of  purest  gold. 
[66] 


WINTER  STARS 

The  sky  is  a  blue  bowl, 

Inverted, 

Dripping  with  diamonds. 

As  lovely  as  a  dream  fading  to  glittering  distances. 

The  air, 

Like  the  cold  kiss  of  a  weary  lover, 

Brushes  my  cheek. 

The  streets  are  silver  ribbons, 

That  crystallize  to  rainbow-colors 

Beneath  the  moon, 

Diverging  hither  and  yon, 

Far,  .   .  .  far  ...  to  the  ghostly   suburbs. 

While  the  Night— 

A  queenly  sleep-walker, 

Robed   in   peace, 

And  sweet  with  the  magic  of  silence, 

Traverses  the  world. 


[67] 


BATTLE  CRY 

Lord  of  the  living  and  dying, 

Judge  of  the  hosts  that  are  dead, 
Spinner  of  years  swiftly  flying, 

Sentry  of  centuries  fled, — 
Ah,  though  my  life  looms  up  lowly, 

Though  I  be  lost  in  the  fight, 
This  be  my  prayer,  Lord,  solely, 

Make  my  arm  strong  for  the  Right ! 

Daily  the  armies  are  clashing: 

Virtue  arrayed  against  Sin; 
Look,  where  the  lances  are  flashing, 

Cowardly  traitors  creep  in! 
So,  I  would  pray  and  implore  Thee, 

Now  while  I'm  armored  with  youth, 
Hold  Thou  the  sword  out  before  me, 

Make  my  arm  strong  for  the  Truth ! 

Greed  hath  the  world  in  its  madness; 

Error  runs  wild  day  and  night; 

[68] 


Pessimists  pluck  out  the  gladness, 
Men  have  derived  from  Thy  Light. 

Yet,  through  faith's  faucets  supernal, 
Gushing  supreme  in  my  breast, 

I  would  beseech,  Lord  Eternal, 

Make  my  arm  strong  for  the  Best! 

Golden  Thy  rule  is  and  mighty, 

Framed  for  the  rich  and  the  poor; 
Never  wild  brain-fancies,  flighty, 

Dragging  men  down  with  their  lure; 
Order  and  law  was  Thy  teaching, 

Thine  was  the  Master's  true  role, 
Lord  of  Crusaders,  world-reaching, 
Give  me  a  valorous  soul ! 


[69] 


THE  ANGELUS 

The  red  moon  glows  like  some  rich  poppy-flower 
Against  the  Night's  blue  breast ;  green  saplings  stir 
Their  tiny  hands  in  sleep ;  shy  lavender 
Enfolds  each  valley-hamlet,  tower  on  tower. 
Now  for  a  space  Queen  Beauty  wields  her  power: 
Before  her  throne,  far  from  the  City's  whir, 
Earth  bows,  and  like  blown  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
The  hush  of  evening  rises  hour  by  hour. 

And  lo,  across  the  dusk,  I  hear  a  bell — 

The  low-toned  Angelus  that  calls  to  prayer, 

In  memory  of  Mary,  pure  and  fair, 

Who  knelt  long  since  beneath  bright  Gabriel's  spell. 

Somewhere  a  homing  thrush  his  love-song  trills, 

And  Night  creeps  down  upon  the  sleeping  hills. 


[70] 


ON  A  MADONNA  PAINTED  BY  PERUGINO 

Lo,  this  is  She — Salvation's  burning  sign! 
Dear  lips  poised  virgin-wise,  as  if  a  prayer 
For  recreant  sinners  shyly  trembled  there — 
What   patient  mother-eyes,   love-brimmed,  benign! 
A    star-hushed   Lily — sprung    from    David's   line — 
Earth's  queenliest   flower — See!   the  hallowed  hair, 
Those  eager,  clasping  hands,  grown  fairest  fair, 
For  that  they  hold  the  Infant  Babe  divine. 

O   Lord  of   all  Art's  beauty-flashing  goal, 
Though  noble  centuries  have  choired  her  name, 
Stir  Thou  my  heart  with  fire  to  limn  her  soul 
In  all  its  golden  glory:  yet,  if  blame 
For  sin  debar  me — take  my  tears  for  toll, 
My  silence  and  my  sorrow,  yes — my  shame. 


[71] 


GOD'S  TREE 

A  tree  grew  in  the  Garden  of  the  Lord, 

Watered  by  the  Eternal  Word; 
With  Dawn's  blue  wings  beneficently  spread 

Above   its   gentle   head, 

Its  flowers  were  like  the  lily-blooms  that  spring 
When  Summer's  golden  heart  is  glittering. 
Yet  sunset  found  them  ruddy  as  the  rose, 
Whose  perfume  lulls  June  gardens  to  repose. 
And  when  the  moonlight  silvered  this  fair  Tree, 

Lo !  there  would  be — 
For  wondering  angel-eyes  to  see — 
White   blossoms,   stainless   as   fresh-fallen   snows. 

And  God,  the  Gardener,  walking  His  domain, 

Said:  "I  would  fain 

That  men  of  earth  might  view  this  lovely  Tree. 
I  shall  transplant  it  down  upon  the  earth; 

And  by  its  mystic  birth, 
Surcharged  with  Heaven-wrought  heredity, 
The  world  of  men  shall  once  more  turn  to  Me." 
[72] 


Vibrant  with  splendor,  like  the  star  of  morn, 

From  every   earth-taint  shorn, 
It  grew  a  thing  of  beauty  for  all  time, 
Unmarred  by  sin's  vile  mire  or  its  slime. 
Its  ruddy  blossoms  opened,  and  there  came 

Love's  living  flame — 

The  Christ  Divine  who  labored  in  God's  name. 
The  white  blooms  burst  that  men  again  might  see 
The  sign  of  womanhood's  virginity. 
The  seeds  that  fell  from  this  immortal  Tree 
Have  taken  root,  and  through  the  centuries 
New  trees  will  bloom  to  gladden  men's  poor  eyes 

A  symbol  of  the  Tree  of  Paradise. 
Love,  fortitude,  and  dauntless  purity, 
These  fruits  it  gives  to  earth  perpetually. 

God  said:  "I   shall  transplant  on  earth  a  Tree, 
In  memory  of  My  Son  and  Her  and  Me." 


[73] 


SIR  GALAHAD'S  VISION  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

'Tis  on  the  holy  night  of  Candlemas, 
A  merry  moon  spills  silver  on  the  snow, 
And  stately  pines,  like  sentinels  a-row, 
Behold  a  rider  pass. 

Sir  Galahad,  a  noble  knight  and  true, 
Whose  gallant  blade  is  ever  raised  on  high 
To  shield  weak  Womanhood  in  chivalry, 
Springs  suddenly  to  view. 

His  casque  of  gold  strikes  fire,  and  his  eyes 
Burn  with  a  mj^stic  light — in  all  the  land 
Rides  never  knight  more  fit  to  hold  command 
In  desperate  emprise. 

Yet  'tis  the  night  of  Candlemas — he  goes 
On  peaceful  quest,  yon  chapel  summons  him, 
Where  watchful  tapers  flame,   and   Seraphim 
Are  sculptured  in  repose. 
[74] 


He  falleth  on  his  knees — far,  far  the  world 
Recedes,  and  Sin,  and  every  evil  thing 
That  vexes  men,  when  lo!  a  fluttering 
Like  to  great  sails  unfurled. 

He  glanceth  up — "O  Ladye,  grasp  mine  arm, 
Strengthen  mine  eyes  that  gladden  now  to  tears, 
Thou  stately  Lily  of  the  Starry  Spheres. 
Bright  Beacon  in  the  Storm !" 

She  stands — our  blessed  Ladye — like  the  sun, 
The  while  a  diamond  light  moves  slowly  'round, 
Wherein  a  Seraph  circles  without  sound, 
Calm  as  oblivion. 

The  Virgin    speaksi:    "Unconquerable   Knight, 
Strong  as  the  oak,  for  that  thy  heart  is  pure, 
Keep  thou  steadfast,  let  naught  of  earth  allure 
To  mar  thee  in  my  sight." 

What  loving  look  the  Virgin  casts  on  him, 
It  seemeth  his  lost  childhood  comes  again, 
Bringing  a  mother's  care,  and  then — ah!  then 
The    dazzling    rafters    swim.   .   .  . 


[75] 


Viols  and  harps  breathe  music  'mid  a  throng 

Of  swaying  lilies ;  ruddy  roses  stir, 
While  ceaselessly  a  mighty  thurifer 
Blends  with  an  Angel's  song. 

Let  us  rejoice,  Madonna  of  the  Morn, 
Let  us  rejoice,  Thou  LtLy  of  the  Night, 

With  happy  voice, 

Let  us  rejoice  .  .  . 

Thou  Jewel  of  the  Crown  of  Kings, 
Thou  Bloom  of  God's  imagmings, 

With  tireless  voice 

Let  us  rejoice, 

Rejoice.  .   .  . 

The  Vision  fades,  the  North  Wind's  trumpet-blast 
Is  borne  unto  his  sad  and  startled  ears, 
And  o'er  his  eyes  there  falls  a  mist  like  tears, 
Because  the  dream  is  past. 

He  mounts  his  fiery  steed,  the  ancient  stars 
Smile  down  as  swift  as  he  skims  the  lonely  plain, 
Sir   Galahad,   the  Pure — devoid   of   stain, 
Is  leaving  for  the  wars. 

[76] 


'Tis  on  the  holy  night  of  Candlemas, 
A  merry  moon  spills  silver  on  the  snow, 
The  stately  pines,  like  sentinels  a-row, 
Behold  a  rider  pass. 


[77] 


VERONICA  TO  THE  MOB 

"A  woman  sprang  from  the  crowd  and  wiped  His  face 
with  a  cloth,  and  lo!  thereon  He  left  the  bloody  imprint  of 
His  countenance." 

Yea,  even  as  ye,  I  followed  on  the  road — 

I  saw  Him  bear  His  load, 
The  cruel  weight  of  that  o'erpowering  Cross ; 
I  saw  the  sickly  sweat,  the  pitiful  loss 
Of  ruby-colored  Blood  that  oozed  from  Him 
At  every   step;   I  marked   His   eyes   grow   dim, 
And  when  He  fell  beneath  your  rain  of  blows, 
And  like  Hell's  clamor,  pandemonium  rose, 
'Twas  then  I  caught  His  eye,  half-closed  with  mire, 
And  there  ran  through  my  veins,  like  streams  of  fire, 
A  very  flood  of  pent-up  tenderness. 
And   I   resolved,   against   all   strife   and   stress 
That  raged  around  me,  I  would  leave  my  place, 
And  daring  all,  wipe  clean  His  bloody  face, 

Look  ye!  this  is   the  kerchief  that  I  bore 

With  trembling  hands,  and  placed  upon  His  brow — 

Mark  ye  it  now! 

Ah  me! — down  to  the  grave  the  look  He  wore, 
[78] 


Goes  night  and  day  before  me  evermore. 
When   He  gave   back  this   white   cloth  unto   me, 
His  Face  shone  like  the  moon  on  Jazer's  Sea, 
And  there  were  sunset-colors  'round  His  hair, 
And   scents   from   hidden    gardens   filled   the   air. 
And  then — O  hark  ye!  ye  who  jeered  Him  down, 
And  pressed  upon  His  head  your  mocking  crown — 

He  smiled  a  wondrous  smile; 

Yea,    all    your   heaped-up    torments    mile    on   mile, 
As  then  I  glimpsed  Him  for  a  moment's  while, 
Had  marred  not  ev'n  the  hem  of  His  poor  gown.  .  .  . 

I   looked    again,   and  all  was   as  before: 

I  saw  Him  stumble  on  in  travail  sore, 

And  I  held  in  my  hands,  clutched  tight   and  fast, 

This  cloth  that  shows  Him  facing  Death  at  last. 

Yea,  I,  Veronica,  am  glad  that  I 

Wiped  clean  His  woeful  face  as  He  passed  by. 


[79] 


OMNIPOTENCE 

Death  spoke,  amid  the  rumbling  roll  of  thunder, 
Along  the  vast,  black-curtained  reach  of  shore: 
"Revenge  is  mine,  my  hand  shall  draw  them  under, 
The  homes  of  earth  shall  know  their  steps  no  more." 

But  when  the  Dawn — a  rose  of  golden  wonder — 

Flamed  radiantly  across  the   sleeping  sea ; 

I  saw  the  ship,  and  while  I  paused  to  ponder 

How  all  on  board  in  safety  still  could  be, 

A  voice  cried  out:  "I  tore  Death's  bonds  asunder, 

I  am  the  Lord  of  Love,  give  thanks  to  Me !" 


[80] 


ON  A  RUINED  ABBEY  AT  DUSK1 

A  wand  of  reverence  rules  the  purple  hush ; 
They  cared  not  here  what  storms  were  forged  afar, 
Seeing  with  peace-lit  eyes  each  bloom-crowned  bush 
The  sunset  splendored  like  a  new-born  star. 
For   them   the   noble   chaunt   of   churchly   hymn, 
Where   gentle    gdlly-flowers    basked   in   dreams. 
Gray-gowned  they  walked — their  hearts  enwrapped 

in  prayer — 
With   eyes    that   pierced   beyond  Earth's    farthest 

rim, 

Yea,  far  beyond  the  sea-moon's  wistful  beams, 
To  where  St.  Bernard  climbed  God's  mystic  stair. 

They  had  their  j  oys ;  on  many  a  rose-flushed  dawn 
Trooped  down  yon  ancient  path  that  meets  the  sea, 
To  pit  their  sun-toiled  strength  and  virgin  brawn 
Against  the  waves'  lithe  arms ;  quaint  pageantry 
Of  noontide's  blue  and  gold  for  them  marched  by; 

iBeaulieu    Abbey,    Hampshire,    England. 
Founded  in  1204  A.  D.  by  King  John. 

[81] 


From  sward  and  copse  each  locust,  bird  and  bee 
For  them  made  music ;  yet,  as  swallows  fly 
Southward   when   Summer  winds  her  parting  horn, 
To-night  they  are  but   wraiths  of  memory, 
The  Abbot's  garden  sobs  a  song  forlorn. 

Grave,  saintly  faces' — scholared  minds  of  old, 
Here  wont  at  eve  to  grace  the  cloistered  green, 
Are  dust;  no  more  the  Angelus  is  tolled, 
•No   more   from   great   Aquinas   do   they  glean 
Wisdom  of  Christian  lore. 

When  stars  looked  down, 

And  Spring  crooned  softly  'neath  the  budded  Moon, 
Then  most,  I  think,  each  Brother's  tonsured  crown 
Was  pleasing  to  Our  Lady  of  the  May, 
Yet  all  things,  save  our  dreams,  fall  to  decay — 


The  Sea's  breath  quickens  now,  the  West  burns  dim, 
Pale,  ghostly  fingers  kiss  the  moss-hung  walls, 
But  from  those  abbey-towers,  I  swear,  a  hymn — 
An  "Adoremus  Domine" — enthralls 
The  listening  Night;  it  soars  aloft,  afar — 
Across    the   boundaries    of    sea   and    sky — 
Up  from  these  paths  that  holy  men  have  trod: 
[82] 


"Praise   Ye   the   Lord!" — ait    rises    clear   and   high, 
And  lo !  I  kneel,  for  where  those  choirs  are, 
Eternal   looms    the   Great   White   Throne   of   God. 


[83] 


THE    SPIRES    OF    ST.    PATRICK'S1 

In    mute-tongued    reverence    and    splendor   lone, 
They  lift  beseeching  hands  to  God  on  high, 
Blending   their   peace   with  the   majestic    sky — 
A  veritable  prayer  of  steel  and  stone. 
Above  the  Avenue's  proud  monotone 
Of  Wealth  that  overawes  the  pas'ser-by, 
These  shafts  are  wings  on  which  hosannahs  fly, 
And  penitential  psalms  are  starward  blown. 

Like  sentinels,  unmoved,  calm-eyed  and  strong, 
Who  guard  the  hidden  gates  of  Life  and  Death, 
They  stand  and  drink  the  South-Wind's  winey  breath, 
Surcharged  with  hints  of  Love  and  Sacred  Song. 
Of  temples  such  as  this  the  Master  saith: 
"Keep  sweet  My  dwelling-place,  here  Angels  throng." 

i  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


[84] 


CHRISTMAS   IN   THE   ARGONNE 

'Tis  Christmas-Eve  in  the  gray  Argonne, 
Where  Yankees  fought  and  bled; 

The    snow   floats   down   in   silver   flakes 
Upon  each  burial-bed. 

When,  lo,  One  comes  in  Comradeship, 
To    vigil   with   the   Dead. 

And    swift    each    ghostly    warrior   stands 

With    reverential    grace,; 
They    spread    a    friendly    circle    'round, 

And    gaze   upon   His    face. 
They  know  Him  for  the  "Prince  of  Peace,' 

Who  loves   the  Human  Race. 

And  soft  there  rises  on  the  night 

A    golden    Christmas-Song ; 
The  woods   are  hushed  to  hear  the  notes 

Of  soldier-voices  strong. 
For  Christ  has  flung  the  spark  of  joy 
Among  this  warrior-throng. 
[85] 


Then  every  dead  man  gathered  there 
Goes   up  and  grips   His  hand; 

They  greet  Him  as  the  Living  Lord, 
Whose    nod    is    a    command, 

And  now  they  hail  Him  as  "The  Chief," 
And  at  salute  they  stand. 

But  soon  as  Night's  spent  shadows  flee, 

He  fades  before  their  eyes; 
His  words  they  hear:  "With  Me  you  made 

The  'Supreme  Sacrifice'  " — 
An  Angel  speaks:  "The  Son  of  Man 

'Waits    you    in   Paradise."  ... 

The  Dawn  creeps  down  the  gray  Argonne, 
As  Day's  wide  pinions  sweep; 

Close  by  a  shivering  shepherd  walks 
Behind  his  flock  of  sheep. 

But  every  dead  man  in  the  woods 
Is  wrapped  again  in  sleep. 


[86] 


"URGE  ME  NO  MORE" 

Urge  me  no  more  to  pluck  earth's  deadly  blossoms, 
The  fruit  was  bitter,  though  the  rind  was  sweet; 

The  flowers  faded,  leaving  scentless  ashes, 

I  drained  Life's  cup,   and  found  I  won — defeat. 

My  dreams  are  ghosts  that  mock  me  at  my  door — 
Urge  me  no  more! 

Urge  me  no  more  to  listen  to  earth's  music, 

The  notes  were  false,  and  Sorrow  topped  the  score ; 

The  songs  of  earth  are  ribald,  and  their  meaning 
Is  shown  by  Shame  who  dances  on  the  floor. 

I  would  my  days  and  nights  to  peace  restore — 
Urge  me  no  more ! 

Urge  me  no  more  to  drink  earth's  cup  of  laughter, 

For  death  was  lurking  at  its  poisoned  brim; 
The  lights  burned  bright,  but  darkness  came,  and 

grieving, 

And  then  I  knew  I  had  deserted  Him. 
My  course  is  set  to  where  God's  graces  pour — 
Urge  me  no  more! 

[87] 


FINALE 

These  things  are  mine  to  treasure  through  the  years, 
Some  brought  me  joy,  and  some  have  brought  me 
tears. 

Rose-bannered  streets  of  dawn,  full-paved  with  gold, 
Down  which  the  sun's  red  curtains  were  unrolled. 

The  wistful  sighing  of  a  willow-tree, 
The  sunset's  banners  fading  gallantly. 

Lo,  I  have  known  the  lover's  lingering  kiss, 
Eternal  in  its  momentary  bliss. 

The  rain-song  of  the  robin  in  the  spring, 

Has  brought  me  dreams  no  other  song  could  bring. 

Yes,  I  have  known  a  mother's  proud  caress, 
And  drunk  deep  in  my  soul  its  tenderness. 

Stars  have  I  seen — those  blossoms  of  the  sky, 
That  bloom  for  centuries,  yet  never  die. 
[88] 


And  I  have  heard  the  moaning  of  the  sea, 
That  world-old  mighty,  sobbing  symphony. 

And  I  have  seen  the  light  in  children's  eyes, 
And  thrilled  to  see  a  wounded  eagle  rise. 

A  violin  at  twilight  I  have  heard, 

When  rose-scents  filled  the  room  and  nothing  stirred. 

Yet  have  I  known  sad  partings,  and  I  know, 
What  lamps'  are  quenched  when  precious  friendships 
go. 

Beneath  a  cedar  tree,  bathed  by  the  moon, 
Once  have  I  heard  Love's  parting  words  too  soon. 

And  have  I  known  the  tang  of  forest-trails, 
And  heard  at  dusk  the  notes  of  nightingales. 

Yes,  I  have  touched  in  Spring  the  sun-warmed  sod, 
Musing  in  silence  on  the  work  of  God. 

A  baby's  kiss  has  swept  my  world-worn  cheek, 
And  suddenly  my  heart  became  quite  meek. 

I  have  so  loved  the  sight  of  apple-blooms, 
Rain  drenched  and  sweet — and  I  have  seen  old  tombs. 
[89] 


Old  gardens  I  have  known,  where  lovers  tryst, 
Ghostly  and  wan,  and  white  as  mountain-mist.   .  .  . 

These  things  are  mine  to  treasure  through  the  years, 
Some  brought  me  joy,  and  some  have  brought  me 
tears. 


[90] 


WINTER  MOON 

Snow-glittering  to  beauty,  proud  and  cold, 

The  Earth  is  like  a  jewel,  set  for  show. 

Upon  Night's  counter  draped  in  purple  sleep — 

The  staring  stars  pass  outward,  smooth  and  slow. 

Still  as  a  dream-smile  curves  a  child's  wan  face, 

The  painted  river  exquisitely  stands 

Amid  the  grave  nobility  of  pines, 

And  brooding  hemlocks  of  the  meadow-lands. 

Like  stern-browed  sentries  flashing  diamond-mail, 
In  Titan-splendor,   southward,   mountains   rise, 
Who  keep  their  ancient  vigil  o'er  the  world, 
While  winds  of  peace  strew  incense  on  their  eyes. 

Lo,  now,  before  this  majesty  of  Night, 
Far,  far  recede  Life's  murk  and  clash  o'  powers; 
Alone,  I  read  the  ritual  of  the  Moon, — 
Court-Queen  of  starry  aisles  and  cloudy  towers. 
[91] 


Shall  I  cry  Beauty's  mute,  inglorious  death, 
From   out  earth's  molten  core  of  space  and   time? 
Nay,  bannered  glories  of   the  Flesh   drink  dust, — 
From  age  to  age  do  Nature's  festals  chime. 

0  song-brimmed  hearts,  O  music-streaming  glances ! 
Now  all  the  dear,  young  Dead  of  Earth's  spent  years 
Appear :    the  earth's  crusaders  of  lost  causes — 
Between  the  ghostly  folds  of  Night's  portieres. 

How  strange,  My  Love — My  very  Love  of  old — 
The  wine-stirred  fragrance  of  your  tremulous  hair! 
Across  Death's  restless  reservoir  you  come, 
Ensilvered  sweet  of  gown,  moon-hushed  and  fair. 

1  made  new  gods  for  old  in  days  of  youth, 
Tossed  to  the  winds  the  ashes  of  Love's  fire ; 
But  underneath  this  canopy  of  Night, 

I  swear  allegiance  to  the  old  desire. 

Behind  the  stars,  look,  look — my  Love — my  Soul! 
The  blinding  windows  of  remembrance  burn! 
Blue  gates  of  dream  swing  wide  unto  our  gaze, 
Old  visions  flame,  Life's  storied  joys  return.   .  .   . 


[92] 


Not  so ;  'tis  but  the  winter-moon  on  high 
That  smiles  farewell  across  Night's  fading  sea ; 
Dawn's  freezing  touch  is  on  the  river-wind, 
And  Loneliness  once  more  companions  me. 


[93] 


THE  SHEPHERDS  AND  THE  CHILD 

Judea's  hills  lay  robed  in  sleep, 
When,  lo,  a  Star  flashed  out  on  high ; 
The  humble  shepherds,  with  their  sheep, 
Slept  peacefully  beneath  that  sky. 

Then  suddenly  an  Angel  came, 

The  shining  herald  of  the  Lord ; 

"Fear  not,"  said  he,  "nor  grief  nor  blame, 

I  bring  you,  but  a  mighty  word. 

"Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring, 
To  you  in  Bethlehem  this  night 
Is  born  the  Saviour,  Christ  the  King, 
Of  all  the  world,  the  Living  Light." 

Thus  spake  the  Seraph,  and  they  saw 
Forthwith  a  dazzling  angel-throng — 
Ambassadors  of  Love's  own  law, 
Who  sang  the  first  sweet  Christmas-song: 

[94] 


"All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
Goodwill  from  Heaven  ne'er  shall  cease; 
And  as  the  centuries  sweep  by, 
To  men  of  earth  be  peace!" 

The  shepherds  came,  the  Christ-Child's  heart 
At  once  oped  wide  to  let  them  in ; 
He  saw  unbidden  tear-drops  start, 
And  wiped  away  their  stain  of  sin. 

Not  to  the  Powerful  of  earth, 
On  Christmas  Eve  went  forth  his  call ; 
Nay,  tidings  of  His  wond'rous  birth 
Did  first  to  lowly  Shepherds  fall. 

O  Christ-Child,  mid  life's  lewd  alarms, 
Our  weary  souls  are  marred  with  sin; 
Or  Rich  or  Poor,  ope  wide  Thine  Arms, 
And  take  us  in! 


[95] 


SYMBOLS 

I  see  His  wounds  on  every  rose 

That  lifts  red  fingers  to  the  dawn ; 
In  yonder  towering  oak  that  grows, 

I  read  the  Rood  He  died  upon. 
For  me  the  raindrops  through  the  years 
Are  Mary's  tears. 

In  every  garden  lined  with  moss, 

Where  green  and  gold  moon-shadows  fall, 
I  see  Him  in  His  suffering  toss, 

And  hear  Him  to  His  Father  call. 
All  rocky  hill-paths  lead,  for  me, 
To  Calvary. 

And  yet  when  Morning's  sunbeams  rise, 

In  splendor,  over  land  and  sea, 
I  glimpse  the  glory  in  His  eyes — 

His  resurrection-majesty. 
By  sun-crowned  day  or  star-pierced  night, 
I  feel  His  might. 

[96] 


I  mark  His  smile  on  every  leaf, 

For  me  His  voice  rolls  on  the  storm; 

His  touch  makes  every  harvest-sheaf, 

His  love  keeps  fledgling  sparrows  warm. 

He  rules  all  things — in  Him  I  see 
Infinity. 


[97] 


SALVE  REGINA  JETERNA! 

Robed  in  thy  flawless  beauty   sempiternal, 
That  shames  the  towering  lovelinss  of  Night, 

Earth's  ancient  message  vernal 
Is  turned  for  thee  a  hymn  of  praise  diurnal, 

Of  elemental  might. 
Yea,  Summer,  in  her  fragrance-laden  flight, 

Doth  spill  her  shining  hours, 

Brimmed  high  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
For  thee  who  art  the  Queen  of  All  the  Year. 
So,  too,  when  Autumn,  ruddy-cheeked  and  brown, 
Along  her  flaming  fields  comes  dancing  down, 
Freighted  with  golden  harvest  of  good  cheer — 
(The  purple  grape  that  clustered  to  its  fall, 
The  new  red  corn,  ripened  for  festival, 
God's  every  gift  from  field  and  tree  and  vine,) 
There  comes  a  mem'ry  of  thy  Son  divine, 
And  thy  dear  voice  saying :  "They  have  no  wine." 

Then  Winter,  white  and  tall, 
Though  aged,  gaunt,  of  chilly  mien  withal, 
Brings  to  thine  arms  again  the  Christ-Child — Him, 
Adored  by  highest  Heaven's  Seraphim; 
Him  Whom  the  Father  loves;  of  Whom  He  spake, 

What  time  the  Earth  did  quake, 
On  Tabor  when  the  Vision  smote  men's  eyes — 
[98] 


"This  is  My  well-beloved  Son, 

Mark  ye  Him  now,  this  is  The  One, 

In  Whom  forever  I  am  well  pleased." 
In  truth,  throughout  the  year's  proud  festal  chain, 
Come  hail  or  snow,  sunshine  or  silver  rain, 
Thy  Name  is  linked  to  veneration-days, 

And  dedicate  to  praise. 

Hence  am  I  come, 

Soul-weary,  harassed,  dumb — 

A  strayer  by  lone  streams, 

A  dreamer  of  poor  dreams, 

Albeit  a  weak  mortal  smirched  with  mire, 

And  seared  with  Sin's  fierce  fire, 
To  lay  my  humble  tribute  on  thy  shrine, 

To  ask  thee,  mother  mine, 
If  thou  wilt  take  to-night  my  simple  song. 
Abashed,  I  press  from  out  the  straining  throng, 
To  hail  thee  Queen  Possest  of  Heaven's  Charms, 

To  seek  thy  shelt'ring  arms. 
Art  thou  not  Mother  of  our  Fallen  Race? 
Lo!  let  the  pity  pictured  in  thy  face 
Rush  down  upon  me,  flooding  all  my  soul 
With  penitential  peace  to  make  me  whole. 

For  thee,  for  thee, 

Lady  of  Loss,  yet  White-Winged  Victory, 
I  touch  my  lowly  lyre  to  fervent  strains, 
[99] 


And  sing  thee  Queen  of  Heaven's  rich  domains. 
Dowered  with  tenderness, 
Flowered  with  gentleness, 

From  thy  lily-white  feet  to  thy  hallowed  hair, 
Beloved  of  Jesu,  Beloved,  Beloved, 
Supremely  spotless,  eternally  fair, 
Virgin  of  Virgins,  hear  my  prayer ! 

Hail  Mary,  Full  of  Grace,  pray  for  me  when 
In  what  tense  hour  I  go  to  death,  Amen. 


[100] 


THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

One  sings  of  the  Dawn's  proud  bloom  of  amber, 
That  swings  on  a  skein  of  emerald  thread ; 

And  one,  of  the  sunset's   fading  blossoms 
When  Day  reclines  on  his  burial-bed. 

But  I  shall  sing  of  the  Virgin-Mother, 
As  He  hung  on  a  Cross  and  slowly  bled. 

There  are  many  who  fashion  the  gracious  moonlight 
To  the  Night's  cool  kiss  on  a  parched  plain ; 

And  many  have  sung  of  the  pine-tree's  whisper 
When  forest-aisles  are  draped  with  rain. 

But  I  shall  sing  of  the  Virgin-Mother, 

Whose  heart  was  crushed  when  her  Son  was  slain. 

There  are  songs  of  the  rose  and  the  stars'  hushed 

glory, 

When  the  fever  of  youth  runs  hot  and  high ; 
Who  has  not  sung  of  the  rainbow's  rapture, 
The  Sea's  low  call,  and  the  willow's  cry? 
[101] 


But  I  shall  fashion  a  song  of  suffering, 
Of  the  days  when  martyrs  chose  to  die. 

I  will  raise  up  the  banner  of  Love  that  is  bleeding, — 
The  meek  and  the  lowly  who  fall  in  the  test 

Are  often  the  victors,  though  theirs  not  the  laurel, 
God  loveth  the  Poor,  but  the  Pure  He  loves  best. 

Sing  me  the  dead  Christ  in  the  arms  of  His  Mother, 
As  she  held  Him  close  to  her  aching  breast. 
» 


[102] 


Hast   thou  not  made  me   a  hewer  of  beauty? 

Hast  thou  not  shaped  me  a  builder  of  dreams? 
Then  were  I  faithless  to  thee  in  my  duty 

Did  I  not  praise  thee  in  chastefullest  themes. 
Yes,  I  must  hallow  thee, — wistfully,  tenderly, — 

Daily  and  nightly, — forever,  it  seems. 

Hast  thou  not  smiled  to  me  over  the  flowers? 

Have  I  not  heard  thy  voice  calling  in  Spring? 
Ah,  thou  hast  lightened  life's  heaviest  hours, 

Helping  these  songs  of  mine  Heavenward  to  wing, 
So  I  proclaim  to  thee,  come  what  of  fame  to  me, 

'Tis  the  fair  name)  of  thee  moves  me  to  sing. 

Hast  thou  not  changed  me  to  votary  of  sorrow, 
Lover  of  purity,  brave  and  serene? 

Thou  art  my  hope  for  a  sinless  to-morrow, 
Guarding  my   fight   against   things   unclean. 

Hence,  in  songs  lowly,  'though  rapturously  holy, 
Hail  I  thee  womanhood's  loveliest  queen! 
[103] 


PROCESSIONAL 

All  night  they  pass,  with  calm,  uplifted  faces, 
Those  ghostly   lines,   pathetically   thin; 

They  come  from  high  and  low  and  desolate  places, 
The  men  and  women  this  world  cannot  win — 
They  are  the  ones  who  flee  away  from  sin. 

No  revels  mark  their  coming  or  their  going, 
No  ribald  sounds  of  music  or  of  mirth; 

But  I  can  see  the  Mystic  Lily  blowing, 

And   where   they   pass    there's    sweetness   on   the 

earth, 
Although  the  world  deems  them  of  little  worth. 

Some  wear  a   crown  of  suffering  with  gladness, 
And  some  are  marked  for  grief  till  life  shall  end ; 

And  some  shall  never  smile  again  for  sadness, 
And  many  know  but  Heaven  as  their  friend. 
Along  life's  narrow  path  their   footsteps   wend. 
[104] 


Some  go  in  tattered  rags,  and  some  in  splendor, 
Yet  every  eye  shines  out  supremely  kind ; 

Soft   words    I   hear,   and   speech  .grown   strangely 

tender, 

Mysterious  as  summer's  evening  wind. 
And  one  old  man  is  lame,  and  one  is  blind. 

All  night  they  pass,  with  calm,  uplifted  faces, 
Those   ghostly   lines,    pathetically    thin; 

They  come  from  high  and  low  and  desolate  places, 
The  men  and  women  this  world  cannot  win; 
Their  souls  are  white,  because  they  will  not  sin. 


[105] 


FULFILLMENT 

I  yearned  to  write  a  record  into  life, — 
Some  work  engrossed  with  Truth's  immortal  flame; 
My  soul  leaped  forward,  eager  for  the  strife, 
But  every  failure  brought  me  bitter  shame. 

And,  lo,   one  morn,  beside   a   dawn-wreathed   road, 
Love  called  me  for  a  space  from  friends  apart ; 
And,  showing  me  his  secret  cipher-code, 
Love  burned  his  deathless  image  on  my  heart. 

No  more  I  crave  Life's  honey-flowing  hour, 
For  Love  has  touched  and  made  my  spirit  strong ; 
In  deeds,  not  words,  my  Soul  shall  come  to  flower, 
My  days  are  notes  in  God's  eternal  song. 


[106] 


THE  CHOICE 

Wealth   hung  a  wreath   of   roses   'round  my   brow, 
And   said:     "For   certain,   thou   art  happy  now. 
In  all  this  world  to  thee  is  naught  denied — " 
"Excepting  love,"  I  answered  him,  and  sighed, 
For  I  was  sad. 

Love  placed  a  crown  of  thorns  upon  my  head — 
"Thou  must  go  down,  ev'n  unto  death,"  he  said 
"Hast   thou  the  soul   to  meet  the  stern  emprise?" 
"Lead  on !"     I  begged  of  him,  with  kindling  eyes — 
For  I  was   glad. 


[107] 


WALT  WHITMAN 

(For  the  Centenary  of  the  "Good  Gray  Poet,"  May  31,  1919) 

One  hundred  crowded  years'  have  passed — 

A  century  of  epoch-building  years — 

Since  you  were  born  to  walk  Life's  devious  ways. 

And  twenty-seven  years  have  taken  wing, — 

A  veritable  flood  of  flaming  days — 

Since  you  "went  West"   along  the  Twilight-Trail. 

But  I  will  swear  I  saw  you, — 

I  saw  you  plain  this  golden  morn,  Walt  Whitman, 

Strolling,  fresh-eyed,  beyond  the  Jersey  Shore. 

You  held  a  lilac-blossom  in  your  hand, — 

You  always  loved  the  lilacs,  Walt, — 

The  dawnlight's  splintered  silver  fell  on  the  cedars, 

The  crimson  tips  of  the  maples  stirred  in  the  breeze. 

I  heard  you  warble  a  song  for  lilac-time, 

(I  always  thought  you'd  come  in  the  lilac-season) 

The  same  as  you  sang  full  forty  years  ago. 

[108] 


Straightway,  a  blue-bird  showered  the  woods  with 

music, 

The  violets  lifted  their  small  white  eyes  to  you, 
The  hylas  purred  as  of  old  along  the  rushes, 
The  dandelions  poised  their  faces  for  your  greeting, 
Nearby  I  heard  the  reedy  notes  of  a  robin, 
The  wood-peckers  tapped  the  trees  in  clarion  chorus, 
The  sparrows  sang  their  simple  songs  of  joy, — 
A  natural  concert  under  the  blue-roofed  sky, 
And,  Walt,  'twas  all  for  you. 

The  smell  of  the  good,  clean  earth  was  in  the  air, 
The  earth,  new-born  and  glad  from  the  kiss  of  the 

rain. 

I  saw  you  sniff  the  air  like  a  startled  stallion, 
Then  set  untrammeled  stride  for  the  Jersey  Hills. 
I  saw  you  plain,  Walt  Whitman, 
I   marked   your   massive   shoulders, 
Your  steel-blue  eyes  that  cleaved  the  reach  of  the 

valley, 
Your  ruddy  lips  that  drank  the  tang  of  the  West 

Wind, 

Your  flowing  hair,  long  used  to  wind  and  weather, 
And  I  thought  of  your  bold-toned  songs  and  virile 

visions, 

Of  your  praise  of  Nature's  beauty  and  dear  De 
mocracy, 

[109] 


Your  Song  of  the  Open  Road, — that  mighty  master 
piece, 

Your  songs  of  the  joy  and  pride  of  all  free  peoples, 
And  my  soul  cried  out  to  follow  you,  Walt, 
Over  the  hills  and  the  valleys. 

I  wanted  to  talk  of  the  deeds  of  the  Yankee  heroes, 
Who  went  through  the  fires  of  hell  in  the  last  Great 

War, 
Of  Chateau-Thierry,  Argonne  and  the  Hindenburg 

Line, 

I  wanted  to  hear  you  raise  another  pagan, 
A  deathless  chant  for  the  old  Democracy, 
But  you  walked  so  fast,  I  lost  you  far  in  the  distance. 
Yet  I  was  glad  to  /glimpse  your  face,  Walt  Whitman, 
To  hear  you  warble  a  song  for  lilac-time, 
To   feel  the  fragrance   and   dauntlessness    of   your 

singing, 

Like  a  cool  dawn-wind  of  Summer  careles'sly  blowing, 
Over  the  Jersey  Shore, 

Fresh  and  sweet  and  brimming  with  remembrance, 
After  forty  years. 


[110] 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

(French  Poet  and  Dramatist,  Member  of  the  Academy,  died 
Dec.  2,  1918) 

To-night  is  Paris  robed  in  light  and  laughter, 
Her  boulevards  are  choked  with  merry  throngs ; 
But  nevermore  shall  he  come  strolling  after, 
Who  sang  so  well  his  country's  epic  songs. 

O'er  Notre  Dame  the  soft  moonlight  is  falling, 
The  Seine — a  silver  riband — gleams  below; 
Along  the  Rue  de  Boise  old  ghosts  are  calling, — 
De  Musset,  Bergerac  and  Rochambeau. 

Donremy's  field,  where  Joan  of  Arc  is  sleeping, 
Grows  restless  with  the  voices  of  the  Dead ; 
O  war-wrecked  France,  hide  not  thy  sorrowed  weep 
ing, 
Rostand  wept  for  thee,  too,  when  thy  heart  bled! 

He  hath  ennobled  thee  in  song  and  story, 
And  placed  before  the  world  thy  valor's  flame; 
The  Fleur-de-lis  of  France  is  steeped  in  glory, 
For  that  Rostand  hath  lived  and  sung  Thy  fame. 
[Ill] 


Tread  softly,  then,  Messieurs,  the  year  is  going, 
Let  bugles  s'ound,  let  Music  play  its  part ; 
Unknown  to  us,  and  yet,  for  all  our  knowing, 
The  trials  of  France  in  war  broke  Rostand's  heart. 

Attention,  ye  proud  Chevaliers  of  France! 

Salute  a  comrade,  give  him  honors  high! 

He  was  a  great  French  Poet  of  Romance, 

As  Frenchmen,  give  him  greeting  and — good-bye. 


[112] 


RETROSPECTION 

It  was  not  that  you  came  so  late, 
And  left  me,  all  unknowing, 
But  that  I  missed  you  at  the  gate, 
When  you  were  going. 

You,  who  were  child  of  field  and  sun, 
With  gold  my  dreams  adorning; 
The  thread  is  broken  that  was  spun 
In  Love's  blue  morning. 

The  river-lights  dance  on,  the  Moon 

To-night  is  silver-cheery ; 

It  was  not  that  you  went  so  s'oon, 

And  made  life  dreary, 

Nor  that  you  were  Death's  plighted  mate, 

And  left  me,  all  unknowing, 

But  that  I  missed  you  at  the  gate, 

When  you  were  going. 


[118] 


MAXIMILIAN  MARVELOUS 

"Maximilian  Marvelous"  we  called  him  for  a  joke, 
He  used  to  pass  us  every  day,  but  rarely  ever  spoke. 
The  shoes  he  wore  were  scandalous,  they  did  not  fit 

his  feet, 
In  tattered  coat  and  greasy  shirt,  he  shuffled  down 

the  street. 
When  once  we  stopped  Max  solemnly,  to  pass  the 

time  of  day, 

He  looked  at  us,  half  doubting,  in  a  hesitating  way. 
And  when  we  asked  him  if  'twere  true  that  he  was 

once  a  king 

Of  some  forgotten  island  where  the  South-Sea  maid 
ens  sing, 

Lo !  Maximilian  Marvelous  gave  us  a  withering  smile, 
I'll  ne'er  forget  his  answer,  as  it  came  in  vigorous 

style : 

"I  am  a  king  of  everything  my  roving  eyes  survey, 
My  kingdom's  built  of  sun-lit  bowers  where  little 

children  play. 
My  scepter's  made  of  jeweled  song  that  wakes  old 

village  lanes, 

[114,] 


My  banquet-hall  is  piled  with  dreams  that  romp  in 

April  rains. 
The  great,  wide  world  is  my  estate,  but  here  I  choose 

to  'bide, 

I  married  Lady  Poverty,  and  I  am  satisfied. 
I  do  not  work — Kings  never  work — why   should  I 

soil  my  hands? 

I  am  the  ruler  of  my  time  for  town  or  meadow-lands. 
Perhaps,  I  am  an  Artist — then  I  paint  the  sunset- 
sky, 

Perhaps  I  am  a  Poet  when  the  days  of  Autumn  die. 
I  eat  one  square  meal  every  day,  its  source  nobody 

knows, 
And    he   who   gives    it    to   me,    sees  I  also  get  some 

clothes. 
The  sun  and  rain  are  friends  of  mine,  the  stars  are 

my  delight 
They    bring   me   thoughts    of    childhood,   when    my 

mother's  eyes  were  bright. 

I  am  a  King  of  everything  that  money  cannot  buy, 
The  richest  man  on  earth,  like  me,  must  some  day 

fade  and  die." 

Then  Maximilian  Marvelous  said  not  another  thing, 
And  as  he  walked  away  we  cried:    "He's  every  inch 

a  King!" 

[115] 


SAPPHO'S  FAREWELL  TO  PHAON 

How  soft  this  night  the  summer-dusk  drops  down 

On  Lesbos-Isle;  know'st  thou  I  said  good-bye, 

Yestre'en,  to  my  four  friends  of  girlhood-days, 

Erinna,  Atthis,  Telesippa,  too, 

And  her,  the  last,  the  cherished  one,  Megara? 

Yet  have  I  kept  one  hour  of  purple  wings 

For  thee  of  all  the  mortals  on  the  earth: 

O  Phaon,  my  Beloved,  I  have  kept 

One  hour  of  the  gods  to  part  from  thee.  .  .  . 

Let  us  walk  seaward,  Phaon ;  look,  Beloved, 
Gay  Venus  throws  her  sapphire  beams  afar 
Across  the  violet-flowers ;  yea,  my  heart 
Grows  cold  and  lonely  now  against  our  parting,  .  .  . 
Didst  catch  a  goodly  store  of  fish  this  morn? 
Or,  haply,  Neptune  frowned  and  stirred  the  waves 
To  anger;  Ah,  I  would  that  thou  mightst  go 
Through  life  without  the  ills  that  vex  men's  souls, 
And  bring  them  pain.     O  Phaon,  I  shall  ever 
Recall  thy  loyal  friendship,  though  thy  love 
[116] 


The  gods  withheld  from  my  poor  maiden-heart. 
Within  Death's   strange  and  silent  shadow-lands, 
Doubtless  the  gods  will  let  me  dream  of  thee. 

Kiss  me  one  kiss  for  parting ;  lo,  the  Night 

Of  orange-scented  lanes  and  glittering  stars 

Is  hushed  to  hear  our  parting-words,  but  we, — 

We  shall  be  smiling,  and,  to  outward  view, 

As  two  bethrothed  lovers  in  the  Spring, 

With  hearts  a-flood  with  beauty  and  bright  days, 

And  eyes  that  drink  rose-dreams  of  coming  years. 

Farewell,  O  Phaon  of  my  heart,  farewell. 
Remember  me  as  one  who  made  thee  songs, 
And  dreamed  of  love  with  thee  beside  the  fire 
On  rainy  nights  after  thy  work  at  sea, — 
Mine  arms  to  hold  thy  man-child  for  thy  smile, — 
We  three,  O  Phaon,  on  the  beach  at  Lesbos. 

Yet  was  it  not  to  be, — the  gods  are  wise, 
They  shape  our  lives  to  Destiny's  grim  plan, 
Unmindful  whether  joy  or  grief  be  ours. 

And  so,  once  more,  dear  Phaon,  fare  thee  well. 
The  gods  have  willed  it  thus ;  into  the  night, 
As  one  who  walks  in  sleep  with  smiling  face, 

I  go. 

[117] 


ASPIRATION 

Strike   down  no   more  men's   monumental   dreams ! 
The  doors  have  crumbled,  burst  are  bolts  and  bars! 
Earth's  races  now  are  marching  to  a  goal 
Whose  light  burns  brighter  than  a  thousand  suns, 
Whose  flame  is  super-heated  white  with  Love — 
The  virgin-source  of  power  that  spins  the  world. 
Hear  ye  not  thunder  in  men's  marching  feet? 
A  roar  of  cataracts  is  in  their  song. 

Lift  up,  lift  up  your  eyes  t 
Democracy's  tremendous  lamp   shines  out — 
A  searchlight  thrown  across  the  shores  of  time. 

Make  way,  make  way 
For  elemental  visions  in  men's  eyes ! 
A  mammoth  flood  of  Truth  is  driving  on — 
A  tossing,  wide,  unconquerable  sea. 
Look,  Justice  points  her  sword  beyond  the  hills ! 
From  dawn's  red  birth  to  moon-embroidered  night, 
As  Destiny  ticks  off  the  measured  years, 
The  triumph-chaunt  of  Beauty  shakes  the  skies. 
[118] 


Beware,  beware  the  dreams  in  strong  men's  souls! 
Ev'n  now  great  hosts  assail  high  Heaven's  gates 
With  laughter  born  of  love  and  honest  toil. 
Old  orders  change — Suspicion  falls  to  rust, 
Like    young   wheat-tendrils    giently    intertwined, 
Men's  arms  shall  link  in  shining  Brotherhood — 
The  Brotherhood  that  springs  from  Love  and  Trust, 
From  Sacrifice  and  Service  nobly  borne, 
And  not  the  driven  engine-force  of  Hate. 

As  long  ago,  in  days  when  Earth  was  young, 
They'll  pass  again  in  ranks,  white-robed  and  fair, — 
Maidens  and  youths  on  paths  of  Righteousness ; 
Their  bosoms  leaping  high  with  peace  and  joy; 
The  love  of  man  for  woman  rich  again 
In  all  its  ancient  glory;  spectred  Death 
Shall  come  but  at  the  end  of  fruitful  lives, 
Like  flowers,  when  seeds  are  blown  and  bloom  is  over, 
When  Old  Age  withers  bodies  to  decay. 

Reach  out  your  hands  through  Morning's  bugling 

hours ! 
Attune    your    ears    to     catch    Earth's    passionate 

strains — 

Those  hidden  chimes  that  sound  on  sunset-eves — 
Great  silver  strokes  on  organ-keys  of  gold — 
[119] 


To  overwhelm  black  chaos-pits  of  Wrath. 

Fling  wide  your  arms  to  greet  Love's  living  hosts, 

Yea,  let  there  be  a  bloodless  Victory, 

To  heal  the  restlessness  of  a  wounded  world.  ... 

A  new-born  Light  is  flaming  in  the  Dawn, 
A  mystic  music  sweeps  across  the  stars ! 


[120] 


"EXCELSIOR!" 

Dawns  merge  with  days,  earth's  sunsets  flare  and 

fade, 

Love's  rapture  dies,  leaving  a  sense  of  tears  ; 
Into  Death's  caravanserai  of  years 
I  would  not  take  the  dreams  Ambition  made, 
Nor  Wealth,  nor  Power,  whose  trappings   fall  to 

rust, 
Nor  Fame,   for   Fame's1  first   kiss    reeks   wet   with 

mould, 
Nay,  world-success  -means  naught  when  men  grow 

old— 
With  none  of  these  would  I  go  down  to  dust. 

But  I  would  crave  —  some  day  when  Time  is  flying, 
And  Mother  Church  is  praying  for  the  Dead, 
When  once  this  mortal  frame  of  mine  is  dying, 
And  the  last  rites  are  sounding  o'er  my  head: 
That   one   should   say:   "Good  deeds  with  him   are 


He  loved  the  Poor  —  God  bless  his1  burial-bed  !" 
[121] 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

("The  Moving  Finger  Writes,  and  Having1  Writ,  Moves  On.") 

The  maples  stir  their  weary  leaves  in  sleep, 
For  melancholy  haunts  the  Hoosier  streams ; 

The  sun-flow'r  mourns,  and,  steeped  in  sorrow  deep, 
The  Wabash  fields  are  liveried  in  dreams. 

Voice  ye  no  royal  eulogy  for  him 

Who  sleeps  to-night  beside  the  sumac-lanes ; 
Nay,  let  his  faithful  morning-glories  brim 

With  fragrance  'round  him  when  the  moonlight 
wanes. 

No  cymbals1'  clangour  loose,  nor  roll  of  drums, 
But  let  each  fair-haired  child  and  sire  grown  old 

Look  on  his  grave,  and  when  a  tear-drop  comes, 
Know  ye  a  tribute's  given,  pure  as  gold. 

[122] 


The  lame,  the  weak,  the  poor,  the  humble  soul, 
The  tired  hands  made  gnarled  through  honest  toil, 

These  all  he  placed  upon  time's  flaming  scroll — 
He  knew  and  sang  the  children  of  the  soil. 

Not  from  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  shall  he 
Derive  the  honeyed  homage  of  high  praise; 

Nay,  he  shall  keep  fame's  immortality 

Through  kindly  hearts  that  learn  his  lyric  lays. 

Yea,  Indiana,  though  thou  weepest  now 
That  he,  thy  best-beloved,  is  no  more, 

Ah,  look,  the  nation  touches  soft  his  brow 
With  laurel  bright  as  ev'n  Whittier  wore. 

Down  dim-lit  corridors  of  distant  years 

By  many  a  hearth  men  shall  thy  ballads  tell — 

Thou  poet  of  homely  joys  and  tender  tears, 
To  thee  we  bid  all  hail !  and  yet — farewell ! 


[123] 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MADISON  CAWEIN 

To-night  Pan  strays   across   Kentucky's  hills, 
Beside  him,  Lo !  his  pipes  are  hanging,  mute, 
For  nevermore  shall  Moschus  touch  the  lute 
To  hold  entranced  the  listening  vales  and  rills. 
The  Zephyrs  wail  a  threnody  that  thrills 
The  ancient  pines  to  silence — Hesper's  fruit 
Shrivels  to  dust,  and  every  branch  and  root, 
Leaf,  bloom  and  bud  weeps  with  the  whip-poor-wills. 
And  Pan  fares  on ;  bent  as  by  weight  of  time, 
He  walks  with  faltering  feet,  bound  for  the  sea, 
Crooning  the  while  some  childhood  melody, 
Entwined  anon  with  strains  of  sad-glad  years. 
Ah!  where  is  Moschus,  Prince  of  Rippling  Rhyme? 
Yea,  he  is  gone:  Pan's  eyes  are  blind  with  tears. 


[124?] 


IN    MEMORIAM—  ROBERT    HUGH    BENSON 
(Died  October  19, 


O'er  Hare  Street  House  the  autumn  sky 

Cups'  beauty  to  the  brim; 
Night  weaves  a  tender  witchery 

Of  dreams  for  him. 

The  South  Wind  weeps  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  the  violets  mourn  on  the  mere, 

For  a  noble  Knight  of  Chivalry 
Once  tarried  here. 

The  young  moon  views  with  saddened  eye 
These  paths  that  knew  his  feet, 

Where  lips  were  wont  to  bid  good-bye 
And  hands  to  meet. 

Ay,  many  a  spring  shall  bloom  again, 

And  many  a  summer's  rose, 
No  more  shall  this  true  knight  greet  men, 

Or  friends  or  foes'. 

[125] 


Faithful,  his  chapel-tapers  flame, 
Christ  still  smiles  from  above, 

The  very  hush  cries  out  his  name, 
For  such  is  love ! 

Yet  now  a  picture  crowds  mine  eyes — 
(How  soft  yon  meadows  sleep! 

Only  the  stars1 — bright  mysteries — 
Old  vigils  keep.) 

Ah,  see!  Christ  stretches  forth  His  hand 

A  Maiden-Knight  to  bring 
Unto   His   own — His  promised   land, 

For  visioning. 


The  world  has  lost  proud  Chiefs  of  State, 
Famed  Heroes  of  the  Sword — 

This1  Hero  fought — hence  doubly  great— 
For  Christ,  the  Lord ! 


[126] 


THE  LAST  TRAIL 

(Jack  London,   Nov.   22,   1916.     "His   words   were  silver,  his 
silence  now  is  golden.") 

Nay,  it  shall  never  be 
That  sombre  requiems  are  tolled  for  thee! 
But  there  shall  be  wild  music  from  the  shore 
Of  flowering  Wai-ki-ki,  and  when  the  door 
Of  Morn  opes  wide  upon  blue  'Frisco  Bay, 

Then  let  a  rollicking  folk'sle  song 

Be  lilted  loud  and  long 

To  cheer  thee,  comrade,  on  thy  shadowy  way. 
See!  Where,  above  the  pines,  snow-clouds  are  drift 
ing, 

And  Nome's  white  lights  grow  weary  with  the  dawn, 
Hark  thou  the  sledge-dog  drivers  calling,  calling, 

While  Winter's1  chains  are  falling — 
'Tis  thee  they  mark,  old  comrade,  thee  they  hail, 

With  "Musha!  Musha!"  down  the  Sitka  Trail, 
But  now  the  wind  from  off  the  Yukon's  shifting, 
And  thou  must  hasten  on.  .   .  . 
[127] 


Thou  wert  indeed  adventurous  with  life, 

Yea,  life  was  but  adventure  keen  for  thee, 

Ev'n  as  Ulysses  on  the  moonless  sea. 

Like  Jason,  too,  thou  sawest  much  of  strife, 

Yet  earnest  home  at  last 

From  all  thy  journeys  vast, 

To  domesticity. 

O  King  of  proud  adventure,  fare  thee  well ! 
Master  of  silvery  words,  with  tales  to  tell, 
May  thou  by  day  have  hunter's  winey  zest, 
And  by  thy  nightly  camp-fire  happy  rest, 
Through  sun  or  wind  or  rain,  or  snow-lashed  gale, 
On  this,  which  is1  for  thee  the  last — 
The  Unknown  Trail. 


[128] 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

(26th  President  of  the  United  States,  died  Jan.  6th,  1919.) 

Ring  down  Life's  mammoth  curtain,  gold  and  red, 

On  the  majestic  Dead! 

Lay  laurels  on  his  head, 

Whose  eyes  went  bravely  smiling  to  the  strife. 

In  peace  or  war, 

For  him  no  secret  door, 

Heart-clean,  and  with  clean  hands, 

He  fought  upon  the  battle-ground  of  life. 

Sound  ye  triumphant  bugles,  blown  by  Youth, 

As  shibboleths  of  Truth! 

Swing  out  America's  banner  to  the  breeze, 

Commemorative  of  gallant  memories, 

Entwined  with  deeds  of  his  of  tongue  and  pen, 

And  the  grim  hardihood  of  body's  strength, 

Which  made  of  him  at  length, 

Who  had  a  master-mind,  a  man  'mong  men. 

Let  the  drums  roll! 
Let  the  bells  toll ! 

A  Soldier's  borne  along  the  ghostly  ways: 
[129] 


Silent  in  death  he  cannot  hear  our  praise. 
The  stalwart,  storm-tossed  oak  has  fallen  low. 
Defiant  to  Life's  winds',  and  rain  and  snow, 
Death's  lightning-stroke    came  down   at   even-glow, 
Wherefore  we  pay  him  homage, — we  who  loved  him 
so. 

Let  the  guns  speak  on  river,  coast  and  bay, 

And   where    the    stern-eyed,    Yankee    dreadnaughts 

stray, 

Let  thunderous  salvos  fleet, 

Let   clanging,   clamorous,  booming   partings    greet, 
Let  epic  tumults  of  applauding  meet 
T.  R.,  beloved, 
As  he,  with  hurrying  feet, 
Adventures  out  upon  Death's  lonely  way. 

Statesman,  Patriot,  Lover  and  Liver  of  Life, 
From  out  the  haven  of  peace,  and  across  the  mael 
strom  of  strife, 
We  will  not  say  farewell; 
Nay,  visioning  the  Mystic  Lily,  white, 
And  stirred  by  dreams  of  the  Sacred  Asphodel, 
Perpetually  bright, — 

We  say  that  even  in  death,  life  does  not  fail. 
And  so  we  call  to  thee, 

[130] 


Undauntedly  and  ruggedly 

Armored  in   Life's   good   deeds   and   Love's    proud 

shining  mail, 
We  call  to  thee, 

And  with  a  Nation's  massted-up,  mighty  shout, 
We   give   thee  KAIL! 


[131] 


pros  x 

(In  memoriain.) 

The  lamp  lies  shattered,  the  "Burning  Fire"  is  dead, 
The  night  wind  droops  across  the  darkening  sea, 
No  more  the  Shepherd  strays  across  the  lea, 

Whereon  his  flock  in  sweet  contentment  fed. 

Low  lies  the  fallen  flower ;  its  scent  has'  sped 
Into  the  vastness  of  Eternity, 
No  more  the  blossom  opens  on  the  tree — 

Serene  in  sleep  reclines  that  noble  head. 

Drop  ye  no  sad-eyed  tears  upon  the  bier 
Of  Mm  whose  calm  white  form  reposeth  here; 
Nay,  rather  lay  a  lily  on  his  brow — 
He  walks  with  Jesus  now. 

The  cry  of  Mars  resounds  through  warring  lands, 
The  harvest  moon  enshrouds  her  face  with  tears — 
Gone  from  our  eyes  the  Sire  of  Bounteous  Years, 

No  more  shall  be  upraised  his  gentle  hands. 
[132] 


Nay,  at  the  Nations'  thresholds  Satan  stands, 
His  face  enwreathed  with  hate  and  bitter  leers, 
His  cohorts  rend  the  air  with  demon-cheers, 

The  while  the  blood  of  thousands  stains  the  sands. 

Come,  lay  an  olive-branch  upon  the  breast 

Of  him  who  counseled  peace  to  East  and  West, 

Who  prayed   that  North  and  South  refrain  from 

war — 
Love's  meek  ambassador! 

Alas,  the  broken  lute,  the  music  flown ! 

No  more  the  rainbow  paints  the  evening  sky, 

War's  thunders  smite  the  valleys  angrily, 
And  blood  doth  run  like  rivers  where  men  groan. 
Gone  from  our  eyes  the  Father  we  have  known, 

Who  loved  his  children  unto  death's  last  sigh, 

Yea,  till  his  heart  had  failed  utterly, 
And  shadows  fell,  and  Christ  called  to  His  own. 

Strew  ye  rose-blooms  along  the  garden-ways 
That  knew  his  feet  in  life's  declining  days; 
Ay,  kiss  with  holy  joy  the  ground  he  trod — 
This  Child  of  God! 

[133] 


THE  DEAD  LABORER 

As  one  who  walks  with  reverend  steps  and  slow 

Before  a  king  laid  low, 

And  sees  the  light  of  greatness  flood  the  room, 

So  I  approach  thee  now. 

Freed  from  life's  bitter  doom 

And  pitiless  array 
Of  burdens  thou  did'st  shoulder  night  and  day. 

Across  thy  patient  brow 

That  soon  must  greet  the  tomb, 
No  more  the  snows 

Nor  ruthless  rains  shall  stray, 
Mocking  thy  face  like  proud,  superior  foes, 

Ah,  would  the  world  might  come 

To  thee  here,  heedless,  dumb, 
And  kiss  thy  faithful  hands,  sun-browned  with  toil. 

Earth's  flowering  soil 

That  sends  its  grateful  fragrance  up  to  God 
Through  the  spring-pulsing  sod, 
[134] 


Ne'er  gladdened  thee;  the  thrush's  vesper  song. 

And  rapture  keen, 
Where  evening  lingers  long, 
Were  to  thine  ears  an  alien  mystery. 

Life  crooned  for  thee 
Some  song,  perhaps,  of  sorrow  choked  with  wrong. 

Ah!  let  from  out  my  heart  new  fragrance  steal. 

Pure  as  a  lily's  breath,  to  feel 
Of  kindly  hands  commending  thee  now  cold, 
And  one  with  all  thy  vanished  sires  of  old. 

Would  I  might  lift  a  song 
To  pierce  the  brooding  walls  of  tragic  night, 
Whose  roof   is   gemmed   with   swinging   star-worlds 

bright, 

That  unborn  centuries' 
Might  hear  my  hymn  of  praise  to  thee,  a  man, 

King  of  Creation's  plan  I 

That  Earth  might  take  and  nourish  at  her  breast, 
Thy  children,  and  their  children's  children  best; 
That  all  the  universe  might  hear  my  call, 
And  in  true  brotherhood,  'mid  work  and  rest, 
Men  might  be  turned  to  love  the  toiler  more, 

And  on  him  justice  pour, 
In  creed  of  "One  for  one,  and  all  for  all." 
[135] 


CARDINAL  MERCIER 

Amid  the  flood  of  chaos,  grief  and  death 
That  swept  his  brave,  indomitable  land, 
He  stood  and  faced  the  Prussian  Command — 
The  Shepherd  of  his  Flock — the  Living  Breath 
Of  Fearlessnes's  and  Right,  which  conquereth 
The  Law  of  Force ;  his  was  the  Master-Hand 
That  shaped  proud  Belgium's  soul,  and  made  it 

stand 
"The  Lord's  stern  instrument,"  as  Scripture  saith. 

Ave !  White  Chieftain !  see,  our  words  are  flowers, 
Our  praise  as  jewels  cast  before  thy  feet; 

Thy  visit  for  these  brief  and  fleeting  hours 
Shall  rose-like,  make  our  homes,  our  Country  sweet. 
Between  thy  smile  and  Heaven's  shining  towers, 
Our  mutual  joys  and  benedictions  meet. 


[136] 


THE  VICTOR 

Grown  meek,  he  masters  Pride ;  through  Love,  slays 

Hate. 

In  lustihood  of  soul,  he  conquers  Lust. 
Envy  by  him  is  beaten  to  the  dust, 
'Though  poor,  he's  rich  in  Manhood's  high  estate. 
Unknown  to  fame,  in  sight  of  God  he's  great. 
A  foe  to  Sloth  and  Gluttony,  he  must 
Hack  daily  from  the  World's  envenomed  crust, 
Its  false  veneer  of  sin,  its  deadly  bait. 

What  matters  Life,  if  Virtue's  slowly  dying! 
Let  darkness   come,  Truth's  torch  can  never   fall; 
Above    the   world's   mad   din   is    Conscience   crying, 
Stone-deaf,  yet  must   the  World  hear  Duty's   call. 
Who   works    and   prays,    on    wings    is    heavenward 

flying, 
For,  conquering  himself,  he  conquers  all. 


[137] 


MADONNA  OF  RHEIMS 

(In  an  out-of-the-way  niche  in  the  wall  of  the  Cathedral, 
almost  choked  with  broken  columns,  a  statue  of  the  Madonna 
was  found,  upright  and  intact,  apparently  unmarred  from 
the  effects  of  the  bombardment. — News  item.) 


The  mighty  'wildered  columns  round  her  lie, 
As  if  to  form  a  loving  barricade 
Against  the  fierce,  red  menace  of  the  sky, 
For  Christ's  white  Lily-Maid. 

Her  gown  is  splendid  as  the  robe  of  night, 
What  time  mid-summer's  stars'  are  on  the  wane ; 
Her  eyes,  in  benediction,  linger,  bright, 
While  falls  the  shrapnel-rain. 

Death  rides  the  wind, — he  scatters  pain  and  loss 
With  lavish  hand  across  the  sullen  scene, 
Till  men  are  minded  of  the  bloody  Cross, 
And  nature's  brooding  mien. 

[138] 


The  shrieking  shells  that  trail  across  the  dark 
Mix  with  the  crash  as  roof  and  rafter  fall ; 
Out  yonder,  see !  the  bodies  lying  stark — 
War's  savage  funeral! 

The  mighty  'wildered  columns  round  her  lie, 
As  if  to  form  a  loving  barricade 
Against  the  fierce,  red  menace  of  the  sky, 
For  Christ's  white  Lily-Maid. 


[139] 


HOLOCAUST 

Set  but  men's  hearts  to  meet  God's  heart, 
From  whence  Love's  living  force  is  hurled ; 
And  ye  would  cause  a  fire  to  start — 
A  holocaust — to  sweep  the  world. 

The  world  has  burned  through  lust  for  power, 
And  blackened  ruins  deck  the  state ; 
What  are  the  echoes  of  the  hour 
From  conflagrations  fed  with  hate? 

'Twere  better  far  the  sun  might  fall 
And  wipe  away  earth's  poisoned  years, 
Than  hear  forever  War's  red  call, 
And  feel  the  drip  of  women's  tears. 

From  out  God's  heart  Love's  floodtide  streams- 
A  flame  of  infinite  desire ; 
Set  but  the  world  to  drink  His  dreams, 
And  Love  would  set  the  world  on  fire. 
[140] 


VIVA  L'lTALIA! 

("They  marched  forth  gaily,  with  flowers  stuck  in  their  rifles.") 

On  Paestum's  plain  the  roses  stir, 

Dawn's  gold  is  on  the  olive  trees ; 

Fair  Florence  dreams  of  days  that  were, 

Yet  now  are  dusty  memories. 

Bnt  see !  Italia's  sons  are  ever  brave, 

Though  War's  stern  duty  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

For  this  is  Dante's  Land  of  Song, 
Which  Verdi's  mighty  music  thrills ; 
Look  !  Garibaldi's  legions  throng, 
In  ghostly  lines,  the  Tuscan  hills ! 
Bravo !  Italia's  Sons  shall  never  fail, 
What  time  her  enemies  the  gates  assail ! 

See,  where  Anconia  keeps  her  sleep, 
Or  where  Salerno  meets  the  sea, 
The  glad-eyed  armies  onward  sweep, 


Dreaming  high  dreams  of  destiny. 
Like  supple  steel  Italia's'  Sons  are  made, 
Yes,  they  shall  battle  well,  nor  unf raid ! 

The  moon  hangs  low  o'er  Naples  Bay, 
The  stars  her  ancient  glories  tell ; 
The  almond  blossoms  softly  sway, 
While  chimes  the  midnight  chapel  bell. 
Italia's  Sons  shall  fight  like  warriors  all, 
From  out  her  s'plendid  past  her  heroes  call. 


[142] 


EPICED1UM 

(In  memory  of  America's  Dead  in  the  Great  War.) 

No  more  for  them  shall  Evening's  rose  unclose, 
Nor  Dawn's  emblazoned  panoplies  be  spread; 
Alike,  the  Rain's  warm  kiss,  and  stabbing  snows, 
Unminded,  fall  upon  each  hallowed  head. 
But  the  Bugles,,  as  they  leap  and  wildly  smg, 
Rejoice,  .  .  .  remembering. 

The  guns'  mad  music  their  young  ears  have  known — 
War's  lullabies  that  moaned  on  Flanders  Plain; 
To-night  the  Wind  walks  on  them,  still  as  stone, 
Where  they  lie  huddled  close  as  riven  grain. 
But]  the  Drums,  reverberating,  proudly  roll — 
They  love  a  Soldier's  soul! 

With  arms  outflung,  and  eyes  that  laughed  at  Death, 
They  drank  the  wine  of  sacrifice  and  loss; 
For  them  a  life-time  spanned  a  burning  breath, 
And  Truth  they  visioned,  clean  of  earthly  dross'. 

[143] 


But  the  Fifes — can  ye  not  hear  their  lusty  shriek? 
They  know,  and  now  they  speak! 

The  lazy  drift  of  cloud,  the  noon-day  hum 

Of  vagrant  bees;  the  lark's  untrammeled  song 

Shall  gladden  them  no  more,  who  now  lie  dumb 

In  Death's  strange  sleep,  yet  once  were  swift  and 

strong. 

But  the  Bells  that  to  all  living  listeners  peal, 
With  joy  their  deeds  reveal! 

They  have  given  their  lives,  with  bodies  bruised  and 

broken, 

Upon  their  Country's   altar  they  have  bled ; 
They  have  left,  as  priceless  heritage,  a  token 
That  Honor  lives  forever  with  the  Dead. 
And  the  Bugles,  as  their  rich  notes  rise  and  fall — 
They  answer,  knowing  att. 


[144] 


THE  GHOSTLY  FLYERS 

(In   Memory    of   the    American   Aviators    Who   Died   in   the 
Great  War.) 

Sweep  clear  the  skyey  avenues  of  Morn ! 

No  cringing  clouds  forlorn 

(Ye  hastening  heralds  of  Earth's  exulting  spheres,) 

Let  loiter  now  as  baleful  barriers 

Against  the  mighty  pageant  of  the  Sun 

— The   Kingly   One— 

Who  leads  to-day  these  swift-winged  charioteers, 
Decked  out  in  brave  exuberance  of  youth, 
Symbols,  afire,  of  Chivalry  and  Truth, 
At  Dawn,  in  one  last,  grand  review  and  flight. 
Innumerable  shafts  of  living  light 
Let  fall  across  the  Maine's  immortal  vale, 

All  hail  to  them !     All  hail ! 

For  these  are  ghosts  of  Yankees  over-bold. 
The  fearless  flyers',  who  battled,  not  for  gold, 
[145] 


But  that  the  cause  of  Freedom  might  not  die. 

These  said  Good-Bye, 
And,  harkening  to  Duty's  clarion  call, 
Upon  Fair  France's'  altar  laid  their  all. 

And  so,  while  Autumn's  face  smiles  down  the  hills, 
And  Victory's   refreshing  breath   distills 
A  dream  of  old-time  beauty  for  men's  souls, 
See!  now  the  sun's  gold  vista  swift  uprolls, 
Lo,  Autumn's  song  is  leaping  on  the  breeze  ! 
Let  no  hearts  mourn  through  bitter  memories, 
For  these  were  gallant  knights  who  skimmed  the  ways 
Of  flower-bordered  triumph;  crowned  with  bays, 
They  went  to  sleep  in  Youth's  flood-tide  of  days. 
Sing  out,  ye  happy-throated  larks  a-wingl 
Make  now  a  merry  music,  ravishing, 
For  these  artificers  of  towering  dreams. 

Who  plumbed  Uranian  streams. 
Yes,  crystallized  with  diamond-shotted  fire, 
For  them  the  peak  of  Morning's  blinding  spire 
Shall  gleam  with  living  rubies,  like  the  sea, 
When  sunset  rests  upon  it  lovingly. 

Let  all  the  Universe  greet  them  with  Song! 
In  dauntless  rapture  strong 
[146] 


Earth  sends  a  JUBILATE  to  the  sky, 

Blue  ves'titured  and  high, 
For  these  untrammeled  lutanists  of  life, 
Who  gloried  so  luxuriously  in  strife. 
Unfold,  unfold,  ye  blossoms  of  the  Dawn ! 
Make  bright  the  path  their  eyes  now  look  upon. 
With  royal  pomp  let  Eastern  Halls  be  spread, 

Imperishably  red — 

They  are  not  dead: 
Nay,  troops  of  Time's  great  warriors  flaunt  each 

name — 

Lufberry,  Chapman,  Roosevelt,  they  acclaim, 
Of  that  young,  shining  company  who  came 
To  keep  alive  Fair  Freedom's'  sacred  flame. 
Look  ye  aloft  where  Love  has  kiss'ed  their  eyes — 

Comrades  in  Paradise! 


[147] 


THE  FALLEN 

(In    memory    of    Sergeant    Joyce    Kilmer,    poet    and    soldier, 
killed  ini  action,  August  1,  1918.) 

When  last   I   gripped   your  hand, 

Endeavoring  by  words  to  let  you  understand 

My  admiration   and  respect   for  you, 

Outside  the  stars  of  autumn-time  burned  blue, 

Bright  as  your  eyes  that  ranged  the  lecture-hall. 

And  I  was  glad  becaus'e  of  your  success, 

And  pleased  to  notice  your  shy  nobleness, — 

The  tender  look  that  lighted  up  your  face 

When  some  one  spoke  your  name ;  there  was  no  trace 

Of  pain  or  trouble  on  it,  only  this : 

A    smile    to  hold   men's   eyes,   or  draw   a   mother's 

kiss. 

And  when  the  audience  clapped  for  your  recall, 
We  said  good-bye,  and  that  was  all. 
To-night,  once  more,  dear  Autumn  looms  afar, 
But  you — you  lie  where  Death  and  Silence  are, 
Who  sang  so  well  of  life's  elusive  joy, 
[148] 


With  all  the  ardor  of  a  laughing  boy. 
Hardly  can  I  believe  that  you  are  dead, 
And  these  blue  stars  keep  vigil  o'er  your  head. 
You  would  not  care  to  have  me  sound  your  praise, 
Yet   you   went  down  to   sleep,   fresh-crowned  with 

bays. 

Your  eyes  were  alien  to  the  form  of  Fear, 
You  would  not  tarry  with  us  "Over  Here," 
But,  heeding  swift  our  Country's  urgent  call, 
Forsaking  paths   of  peace,  you  left  home,  friends 

and  all. 

And  so,  from  out  the  gracious-handed  year, 
I  know  you'd  like  ripe  goldenrod  to  fall 
In  some  moon-fres'coed  field,  across  the  spot 
Where  you  lie  with  the  brave,  and  know  it  not. 
I  think  you'd  like  a  mating-thrush  to  call 
And  sing  above  your  grave  a  song  of  love, 
In  memory  of  old  days  I'm  dreaming  of. 
You  drank  the  drink  of  death  that  we  might  live, — 
No  greater  thing  could  your  clean  manhood  give. 
What  can  I  add,  who  once  did  grip  your  hand, 
Endeavoring  by  words  to  let  you  understand 
My  admiration  and  respect  for  you, 
While  overhead  the  autumn-stars  burned  blue, 
Except  that  Death, 
Who  took  away  your  breath, 
[149] 


Has  sanctified  and  raised  your  spirit  high, 

Imperishably  sweet  and  free  from  stain — 

Far,  far  above  us  all  who  still  remain. 

And  I  am  proud  to-night,  remembering 

So   unforgettably   a  human  thing. 

How  you  last  flashed  a  parting  smile  to  me, 

So  cheerily, 

While  autumn-stars  burned  in  the  quiet  sky, 

The  night  we  s'aid  good-bye. 


[150] 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 

(Poet    of    Meath,    Ireland, — Lance-Corporal    in    the    British 
Army,  killed  in  action  on  the  Flanders  Front,  July  31,  1917.) 

To-night  the  South  Wind's'  moaning  over  Meath. 
The  plover  tells  her  mate :  "Lo !  he  is  gone — 
Softly  he  went  as  stars  that  fade  at  dawn. 
Our  happy  minstrel  of  the  hawthorn  hedge, 
Who  loved  Glen-moira  by  the  silver  sedge, 
Has  left  us  for  the  stern-eyed  halls  of  Death — 
No  more  his  laugh  shall  cheer  us  on  the  heath." 
The  Little  People  cry:  "Will  he  not  come?" 
And  Faeries  answer:  "Nay  our  friend  lies  dumb, 
Withered  and  dead  like  wilted  funeral-wreath." 

Across1  the  moonlit  vales  of  Innisfallen, 

The  night  thrush  wings  his  silent,  lonely  flight, 

While  clover  blossoms  shiver  in  their  fright, 

And  ghostly  white 

The  brooding  birches  drop  their  tears 
In  memory  of  him  who  through  the  years 
Companioned  them  on  many  a  merry  night. 
[151] 


Lo !  he  is  gone — Poet  of  Sun-kissed  Fields, 
Drinker  of  joy  that  lovely  Nature  yields. 
Who  made  his  songs  of  birds  and  trees  and  flowers, 
And  growing  things  that  color  Life's  gray  hours. 
Of  him  let  it  be  said  in  very  truth — 

Yea,  let  the  record  be: 
He  offered  up  the  chalice  of  his  youth 

To  Liberty. 

He  shed  his  blood  to  fight  a  Mighty  Wrong, 
And  left  the  world  far  richer  by  his  song. 


[152] 


THE  POET  OF  THE  FOREIGN  LEGION 

(Alan  Seeger,  American  Poet,  member  of  the  Foreign  Legion, 
killed  in  action  at  Belloy-on-Santerre,  July  4,  1916.) 

"/  Have  A   Rendezvous   With  Death" 

So  young  he  was  to  keep  Death's  baleful  tryst, 
To  drink  Life's  cup  of  pain  down  to  the  lees, 
Whose  dauntless  spirit  surged  with  memories 
Of  girls  and  love,  and  skies  of  amethyst 
Close-folded  to  the   Night. 
How  oft,  perchance,  his  eager  feet  had  gone, 
At  the  blue,  budding  dawn, 
Across  his  native  heath,  his  eyes  alight, — 
His  soul  athirst  for  beauty,  old  as  earth, 
Hearing  Pan  pipe  a  glad-wild  melody 
Beside  some  quiet,  sun-transfigured  stream. 
Or,  wandering  by  the  moon-showered  sea, 
Haply  his  heart  held  dream  on  shining  dream. 

Alas  for  Youth  and  Mirth, 

And  hopes  that  fade  like  frail,  frost-blighted  flowers, 

And  golden-footed  hours! 

[153] 


For,  like  a  bugle  blaring  through  the  street, 
Shrill-blown  by  one  whose  motor-car  is  fleet, 
The  call  of  duty  pierecd  his  listening  ears, 
A  hand  showed  him  the  path  that  led  to  War, 
And  beckoned  him — Song's  true  ambassador. 

Lo,  he  is  gone;  star-crowned  and  clean  of  tears, 
With  Fame's'  immortal  blossoms  on  his  hair, 
He  met  Death's  kiss ;  to-night  the  fields  are  fair 
In  peace-lit  Avalon  where  poets  rest, 
And  he  is  latest  guest. 

Young  Keats  is  with  him — silver  fountains  play 
A  tender  threnody  for  men  of  earth, 
Whose  eyes  are  sealed  with  darkness,  and  whose  birth 
Foreshadows   pain  and  grief,   and  deep  despair, 
Yea,  everywhere. 

Scatter  ye  roses — skyey  trophies  bring, 
And  let  the  night  be  shattered  with  your  cheers 
For  him  whose  sacrifice  outlives  the  years ; 
The  seeds  of  whose  proud  songs 
Shall  work  to   right  Earth's   federated   wrongs, 
By  flowering  to  a  mighty  harvesting. 
[154*] 


Song  wed  to  Chivalry  and  'twined  with  Love 
Of  Liberty  that  sheds'  a  sacred  flame, 
Enshrines  his  mera'ry  bright  as  stars   above, 
And  glorifies  his  name. 


[155] 


HE  LEFT  ME  DREAMS 

(In  memory  of  J.  W.  H.,  despatch  bearer  in  the  Rainbow 
Division,  killed  in   action  in  France.) 

He  left  me  dreams, — bright,  starry  shafts,  unbroken, 

Rose-decked   and   sweet,   as   sign-posts   down   the 

years ; 
A  wreath  of  gallant  memories  for  a  token 

To  'twine  within  the  tribute  of  my  tears. 
His  songs  were  sheafs  of  triumph,  proud,  unbending, 

A  glory  unforgettable,  to  trace 
Upon  my  life — my  children's  lives — nor  ending, 
But,  like  Dawn's   sacred  flame,  forever  blending 

With  Honor  sprung  from  Love's  high  dwelling- 
place. 

The  sunset's1  ruddy  kiss,  the  moon's  brave  wonder, 

In  merry  messages  he  sent  to  me; 
His  words  were  silver  bells  amid  the  thunder 

Of  death-commissioned  guns  across  the  sea. 
He  left  me  Faith  and  Hope  and  smiles  immortal, 
[156] 


And     thoughts     that     flung     stern     challenges     to 

wrong ; 
A  knight  he  fought,  and  stormed  the  tyrant's 

portal, 
His  deeds  like  seeds  shall  flower  into  song. 

The  Night's  cool  whisper,  when  the  Dawn  is  'waking, 

And  ghostly  hands  unclasp,  yet  clasp  again, 
He  knew;  and  drank,  like  wine,  for  spirit's  slaking, 

The  bubble-crested  music  of  the  rain. 
He  left  no  gold,  he  sent  no  earthly  treasure, 

His  sacrifice  is  hidden  deep  from  fame, 
Forsaking  home  and  friends  and  peace  and  pleasure, 

He  sent  me  Love  in  Friendship's  hallowed  name. 


[157] 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  RUPERT  BROOKE 

(Young  English  Soldier-poet,  killed  by  Sun-stroke  in  the 
Dardanelles,  and  buried  on  the  Greek  Island  of  Scyros  in 
April,  1915.  He  had  admired  the  spot  only  a  few  days  before 
his  death.) 

Above  his   head   shy  olive-blooms   are  bending, 
To  kiss  the  brave  young  glory  of  his  face ; 

The  rose   and   asphodel — their  perfume   blending — 
Make  beautiful  the  place. 

The  Moon,  robed  for  Night's  nuptials,  flings  him 
splendor, 

In  silver  showers,  from  blue  ^Egea's  strand, 
For  soon  again  Endymion  shall  attend  her 

Through  Pan's  Arcadian  land. 

Star-sentries  keep  for  him  a  watch  undying — 
Here  he  doth  sleep,  where  he  would  wish  to  be: 

With  laughing  Fauns,  and  Dryads'  light  feet  flying, 
And   yonder,   lo !— the   Sea ! 
f!58] 


Look!     Sappho  waves  him  greeting — Lethe's  River 
Shall  wash  away  Love's  wounds  of  Earth's  mad 
years ; 

No  more  for  him  sharp  grief  or  wistful  quiver 
Of  eyelids  gone  to  tears. 

War's  clangor's  hushed  for  him ;  the  bloody  morrow 
Was  not  to  be  his  heritage  at  last; 

Death  touched  him  softly,  fled  are  Pain  and  Sorrow 
Into  the  curtained  past. 

The  Sirens  call  with  wonder-music,  wooing, 

Yea,  Venus  speaks — her  lips  like  ruddy  wine — 

To  bid  him  ride  with  Phoebus,  gold-bestrewing, 
Unto  the  Muses  Nine. 

Ay,  he  hath  now  a  world  to  fit  his  dreaming: 
The  old  high  gods  and  heroes  of  romance ; 

Calm     woodland-ways,     where     Bacchant-eyes     are 

gleaming, 
And  gentle  Nereids  dance. 

Across  the  purple  sea-line  Neptune's  calling, 
Far  south  upshines  Minerva's  temple-piles; 

The  orange-breeze  blows  sweet — the  tide  is  falling 
Around  the  Grecian  Isles, 
[159] 


Ye  dreamers  all,  and  poets  glad  with  singing, 
Idlers  at  inns  and  gatherers  of  fruit — 

Weave  ye  Song's  coronal,  with  blossoms  springing, 
For  one  whom  Death  made  mute. 


[160] 


THE  DEAD  ASTRONOMER 

(In  memory  of  Percival  Lowell,  late   Head  of  the  Lowell 
Observatory  at  Flagstaff,  Arizona. 

Across  the  gentle  night  stars  bud  and  bloom, 

Tolling  the  ebb  and  flow  of  cycling  time ; 
Spun  out  from  the  Creator's  mighty  loom 

They  sing  for  evermore  the  Ancient  Rhyme. 
Purple  and  gold  and  bluish-white  they  gleam, 

Above   these    crags    and    canyons,   thunder-sown. 
The  garden-paths  of  Pollux  lie  a-dream, 

While  Death — the  Sentinel — keeps  watch,  alone. 

Lo !  he  is  gone — the  Searcher  of  the  Skies ! 

No  more  the  mountain  breezes  stir  his  hair, 
The  while  he  marks,  with  genius-flaming  eyes, 

The  hills  on  Mars,  or  some  young  comet's  lair. 
Great  curving  streams  of  suns  and  wreaths  of  stars 

That  swung  before  him  in  that  fiery  sea, 
Now  play  his  funeral  march  on  viewless  bars — 

Aerial  Ocean's  proudest  pageantry! 
[161] 


Yea,  he  is  gone!  yet  somewhere,  with  the  Sun 

That  scatters  far  the  laggard  mists  of  morn, 
His'  spirit  soars,  like  Rigel — Silver  One, 

Whose  colors  oft  blue  eastern  Night  adorn. 
Not  by  lone  trappers'  trails,  nor  on  the  sea, 

Nor  in  the  woods  when  Evening's  lamp  burns  dim, 
Shall  he  be  met,  but  'mid  the  galaxy 

Of  Suns  and  Moons  and  Stars,  look  ye  for  him! 


[162] 


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